Homeschool, Home Office, Homework, and Holy Hell

Some mornings, the coffee’s not strong enough.
Some days, the patience runs out before the printer filament does.
Some nights, I stare at the ceiling wondering how in the world I got here—teaching math, packing orders, writing theology papers, and answering the eternal question:
“Can I have a snack?”

Welcome to the holy collision of homeschool, home office, homework—and the quiet grace that keeps it from imploding entirely.

It’s not aesthetic.
It’s not scheduled.
It’s not even efficient most of the time.

It’s makeshift.
Held together with late-night editing sessions, cereal for dinner, and a to-do list that mocks me from the fridge.

I’m the parent, the teacher, the entrepreneur, the seminary student.
The one who prints fidget toys while grading spelling tests.
Who breaks down biblical Greek while the kids build LEGO cities at my feet.
Who preaches about grace on Sunday and tries to survive it Monday through Saturday.

And in the middle of it all—there are my boys.

They spar and tumble like tiny defenders—fighting clean, loving hard, and learning to hold their own on and off the mat.
They throw spontaneous dance parties.
They build towering Megnatile masterpieces and knock them down with the same joy they used to create them.
They ask big questions.
They learn through life—unschooled, unfiltered, and deeply curious.
They eat non-stop.
They wrestle with each other constantly—full-contact chaos in the middle of the living room.

And as they tumble and shriek and fight and forgive, I realize:
I’m wrestling, too.

Not with elbows and knees, but with meaning.
With theology.
With how to raise them in a world that feels bent and beautiful all at once.
With how to be a whole human while carrying callings that never seem to clock out.

We’re all learning here.
Learning how to live in tension.
How to love in motion.
How to stay rooted in something deeper than the noise.

Some days, it all feels holy.
Other days, it feels like “holy hell.”

But here’s the thing: I don’t have to crush it to be faithful.
The calling isn’t to be perfect.
It’s to show up.

To show up for the hard conversations.
To show up when the budget’s tight and the kids are loud and the dishes are multiplying.
To show up for my call, even when I’m tired of being stretched so damn thin.

Because somewhere in the math lessons and microwave meals, in the sermon drafts and side hustles, we’re building something.
A life that doesn’t pretend to be polished.
A life that makes room for grace—not as decoration, but as fuel.

We talk about the homestretch like it’s a finish line—like if we just push a little harder, grind a little longer, we’ll finally arrive.
But real life doesn’t work like that.
A calling isn’t something you complete.
It’s something you carry.
Something you return to—again and again—tired, unsure, but still standing.

And sometimes standing means kneeling—
Not in defeat, but in connection.
In gratitude.
In the posture of grace that says,
“I’m present. I’m grounded. I’m listening.”

Because even in a life that never quite stops,
pauses still have purpose.
Rest is still holy—but sometimes, it isn’t still.

Sometimes rest looks like collapsing in the middle of the mess, not cleaning it up.
Like breathing through the noise instead of waiting for silence.
It’s found in motion, in the in-between, in the refusal to give up even when you’ve got nothing left to prove.

Parenting doesn’t pause for peace.
The boys don’t wait for me to finish the to-do list before launching into another wrestling match or dance party.
They live loud.
They live now.
And somehow, they teach me how to rest by pulling me into their world—where joy doesn’t have to be quiet to be sacred.

Rest isn’t always quiet.
Sometimes it’s choosing yourself as the hustle—
and recognizing that keeping your sanity is the real grind.
Sometimes it’s laughing mid-chaos.
Sometimes it’s saying “this is enough for today” with a half-folded pile of laundry in the corner and someone asking for another snack.

Rest isn’t what happens when the work is done—it’s what makes continuing possible.

And grace?
Grace doesn’t wait for the chaos to clear.
It slides in sideways, uninvited, and unbothered.
It finds you in the scramble—not to fix you, but to meet you.

Grace shows up in the gaps.
It stands beside you. Hell- most days it stands for you.