A Gentle Path

Twelve Years at the Kitchen Table

Words by Alexandria Smith

There is a hush that settles each dawn before little footsteps thud downstairs. I have lived inside that hush for twelve years, holding the same love for home educating while sunlight stains our walls gold and books await. From toddler scribbles to ninth grade algebra, our days are woven of ordinary threads—oatmeal, nature walks, times tables recited over laundry piles—yet the finished cloth is anything but ordinary.

Homeschooling, for me, has never been about duplicating the classroom at home; it’s about cultivating wonder and connection from the front porch steps. We read aloud until eyes grow heavy, paint flower studies on a blanket by the creek, measure baking soda volcanoes that inevitably overflow onto bare feet. I have learned that curiosity is contagious: when one child gasps at a hawk’s shadow, the others look up too. Wonder spreads like wild mint.

If you are just peeking through the doorway, unsure whether to step inside, know this: homeschooling is not a velvet-roped exhibit for a chosen few. It is simply another room in the grand house of parenting—one you may visit for a season or for a lifetime. And whether you choose to come in or not, we are all, in the end, doing the holy work of loving our children well.

Fourteen years ago when I left my teaching job at Buchanan High School, I hoped and prayed even then, that the little baby I had just given birth to would one day sit beside me at the kitchen table as we recited poetry over tea and studied the classics from home. But I had my reservations—would I be enough for her? Would I be able to introduce her to everything good and beautiful that would stir wonder and joy in her heart? And then one day I heard her telling our fifth baby about Narnia, and I realized that yes, everything she needed was here, that God would make our path straight, and that home education had become part of our family’s story.

They have learned not just how to read, or write, or or recall math facts, but they have learned to live slower. To pay attention. They have learned to sit with the wonder around them and the gratitude and joy that lives there too. They have learned how not to be distracted by shiny things in the name of entertainment, but instead to allow the innate desires of curiosity to take root in their hearts. Even as I write this out, my 11-year-old son came in to bring me a flower he found on our hillside, something tiny but new, something he noticed and wanted to share.

But for every beautiful week, there have been cracked-open days too—curriculum that flopped, tears over long division, my own doubts thrumming at midnight. Yet every struggle has whispered a reminder: perfection is not the assignment, faithfulness is. Hearts grow best in the soil of patient consistency and quick forgiveness.

Each child is unique and should be honored in such a way. Comparison has no place at the homeschool table. Children, when given the opportunity, will flourish in their right time, and step into who they were made to be when not bogged down with standardized expectations but lifted up with individualized potential; with home educating, progress is the measuring stick. It is a faith-filled process, built on the truth that within your child are precious seeds just waiting to bloom.

Handful of First-Year Helps

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Start small, stay flexible. Choose a core of reading, writing, math, science and history. Then start adding in composer and artist studies, recitations, and more.

Guard delight. When interest sparks, follow it—even if it detours your plan for a week. Joy teaches more than worksheets ever could.

Build anchors, not clocks. Tie lessons to daily rituals—breakfast poetry, afternoon nature walks—so learning rides the rhythm of family life.

Keep a parent’s notebook. Jot victories, funny quotes, and worries. On weary days you’ll see tangible evidence of growth.

Find community. Whether a co-op, online forum, or two friends at the park, share stories; borrowed courage is still courage.

Take heart, friend. Whether your schoolroom is a kitchen table or elsewhere, the real lesson is love measured out in ordinary minutes. May your home—whatever its schooling style—be a place where curiosity is welcome, mistakes are compost, and every child knows they are wonderfully, endlessly worth the effort.