Before 2020, I thought Moses wandered the desert for forty years because of sin. I thought it was judgment. I thought it was theological. Then I spent eighteen months trying to teach long division to a nine-year-old who kept licking the whiteboard, and I realized: Moses wasn’t being punished. He was homeschooling.

I had three children, ages 6, 9, and 12, in my dining room for the better part of two school years. The six-year-old could not sit still for more than forty-five seconds. The nine-year-old asked “why” after every sentence I spoke, including sentences that were themselves answers to “why.” The twelve-year-old informed me on day three that I was “not a real teacher,” a designation that was technically accurate and emotionally devastating.

“The Israelites complained about manna. My children complained about lunch. Every single day. I made lunch every single day and every single day they acted as though the concept of lunch had never occurred to them before.”

By month four, I had stopped grading and started surviving. My lesson plans went from detailed outlines with objectives and assessments to a single Post-it note that read “math, reading, don’t cry.” I did not always achieve all three.

I understand Moses now. I understand the frustration of leading people who will not listen toward a destination they cannot see. I understand striking the rock. I do not condone it, but I understand it. There were moments at my dining room table when I, too, wanted to strike a rock.

My children are back in school now. They are thriving. I am in therapy. The whiteboard is in the garage and I cannot look at it without my eye twitching. But we made it. We crossed our own Jordan. The promised land smells like a public school cafeteria and I have never been more grateful for anything in my life.

At press time, my youngest had brought home a permission slip for a field trip and I signed it so fast I pulled a muscle in my hand.