As a preteen, I picked up a pen pal from Ghana. She told me she was trying to save money for college. “We don’t go to college unless we have a purpose for it,” I wrote back. We being conservative Mennonites and purpose being a vital occupation like doctor or nurse. 

I don’t remember that anyone told me this. I picked it up from observation and a general sense that shimmered in the air, along with anecdotes from articles and sermons about the college-educated man who was unable, with his jaded eyes and razor words, to break the faith of a simple Christian. 

Sometime after high school this changed. I wanted to write. I burned with longing to expand my mind. I wanted to know things. But writing didn’t meet my inner criteria of a vital occupation, and you didn’t need a degree for it, anyway. 

Spending money on a wonder or whim would be frivolous, perhaps dangerous. And people were dying in Africa. 

God, teach me to write, I remember praying. (I had given up college for God.) I believe God honored that prayer.  

But the longing still simmered. I didn’t completely know why. Was it a pure desire for learning? Or did I merely want to rise in the world, to prove my intellectual mettle? I had always been good in school. Among people who think and conceptualize, I knew I could shine. 

At 24, I audited a creative writing class at our local university, an hour’s drive from my small town in rural Wisconsin. Audited, because paying full price to get academic credit for a class I didn’t need would be frivolous. 

I loved that class. Worlds opened to me. Words expanded like fireworks over my head. And what was most intoxicating — heady, like sipping clear water from Ponce de León’s fountain of youth — was the freedom of it, the atmosphere of discovery and question. 

Always before I had been in an atmosphere where every question had a predetermined answer. Yes, one could ask questions and wrestle with God — this was a part of being human — but it only thinly veiled the fact that there was a right set of answers, a right trajectory for any human quest to take. After monsters, snakes and brushes with evil witch ladies, the cup would be found in the place you had always known it to be. 

When the solution is predetermined, the quest feels . . . boring? 

As much as I loved that class, it brought me to a crisis of faith perhaps not so different from the anecdotes I had heard. I had never rubbed shoulders closely with non- Christians, or even non-Mennonites, and I began to question everything I had ever learned about God and the Bible. 

I came out dizzy but with faith intact. Yet I still longed — more than ever, now that I had tasted — for the wide-open questing portal that is college. 

Eventually I did return to college, first to Sattler, a college in Boston that aligned with Anabaptist teaching while still giving my mind room to stretch like a cat and curl its tail around ancient knowledge and new thought. And, after marriage, to Lancaster Bible College, a practical choice that allowed me to complete my degree online. I would still like to get my master’s someday. 

now, I am on the other side of the equation: on the brink of homeschooling, with my oldest in kindergarten and many plans in my head about what I want to teach both my children. 

I find that I love teaching — particularly when it’s educating my own children — as much as I ever loved learning. 

Why do I want to teach my children? The answer feels purer and simpler. 

I want their minds to expand, to wonder, to soak in some of the breadth and height of the universe. I want them to be capable of pursuing their interests and dreams. I want them to have resources and tools to contribute to the cause of humanity. I want them to understand a little bit of the magnitude of God. I want them to gain a worldview that makes sense, that is like bedrock to a questing mind. 

Like my parents before me, I will try to give them the answers I have wrested from hard-baked soil, the golden flakes of my quest. The grail still lies ahead. 

And, like their parents before them, they will question and surge, choose this way or that, ultimately be influenced more by love than by reason and come up someplace that I must trust God to lead them.