Upwardthinkr

Consistency in discipline means that children can trust the boundaries we establish. They should not have to wonder, “Will my guide correct me today, or will she let it pass?” When expectations are clear and responses are predictable, the child experiences the environment as secure and just.

But consistency must be accompanied by integrity. It is possible to be consistent yet harsh, or consistent yet mechanical. Christian shepherding calls us to discipline with both truth and grace. We uphold the standard because the child is capable of growth, while remembering that the child is not merely a behavior that needs correcting, but a person who needs guidance.

I also need to examine whether I apply standards fairly. My response should not depend on my mood, how busy I am, how much I like a particular behavior, or which child is involved. Integrity asks me to be impartial and to correct privately and respectfully whenever possible.

In Montessori, discipline is ultimately directed toward self-discipline. The goal is not simply to make the child comply with the adult. We want the child gradually to understand why a boundary exists, recognize the effect of his actions on others, make amends when necessary, and eventually choose what is right without external enforcement.

As a Christian guide, I am also reminded that I cannot shepherd children well if I am unwilling to examine my own heart. I cannot consistently call children to self-control while excusing my own impatience. My manner of correction becomes part of the lesson. When I lose patience, I must be willing to acknowledge it, apologize, and begin again. This does not weaken my authority; it demonstrates integrity.

The question, therefore, is not only, “Did I correct the child?” but:

* Was I faithful to the standard?

* Was I fair and consistent?

* Did I correct the behavior without diminishing the child?

* Did I seek restoration rather than merely compliance?

* Did my response reflect self-control?

* Did I point the child toward responsibility and self-discipline?

* Was my shepherding consistent with the grace and truth I want the children to understand?

Amid failure, retakes, and what seems to be an unending succession of requirements, there is a gentle invitation to go beyond mere endurance. It is not a call to exert greater personal effort, but to enter into a truer rest, a rest not defined by the absence of work, but by the presence of Christ within it. This rest steadies the inner life, even as the outward tasks remain.

To choose this path requires intention. The natural inclination is to seek immediate relief, visible progress, and resolution. Yet grace offers what may be called a “second strength,” a strength not self derived, but received. In this strength, even the smallest task may be undertaken anew, no longer as a burden to be endured, but as an offering given.

From this, a quiet joy emerges, not fleeting, but sustained, not dependent on circumstances, but rooted in communion. Love, too, is deepened, no longer merely emotional, but purposeful and enduring. Even in the presence of unfinished work and unmet expectations, there is a growing awareness that to know Christ, to walk with Him, and to behold Him is itself the greater gift.

At eight o’clock the day begins,

With sleepy smiles and hidden grins.

Till three we work, we write, we run,

“Yes, student life is hard… sometimes.”

But in between the sums and charts,

We build with brains and bigger hearts.

We see red paper, pink and white,

Designs that make the classroom bright.

We tape up hearts with careful art,

Each name a small but earnest part.

We see our “Love” wall,

Where brave, kind words belong to all.

We hear, “Miss, this is so hard!”

And three more voices proving strong.

With Table C, “Is it prime factors?”

“Look at your Table A and B”

The volume rises like the sea,

A tidal moment in L2A.

We smell modelling clays and garden air,

Sun-warmed soil and February fair.

Outside, adventure calls our crew,

An ant hill waits with secrets too.

We kneel down low with hopeful cheer,

“Perhaps the ant queen’s hiding here!”

We taste excitement, sweet and quick,

Like chocolate hearts on Cupid’s pick.

We taste surprise (and maybe dread)

When science pops into our head.

A centipede, its legs still move!

Our faces freeze. Ooppss, it’s unspeakable.

“I don’t wanna!” one voice cries,

“I feel amazed!” another replies.

We feel grossed out… and curious too,

Isn’t that what scientists do?

Both wonder wide and courage thin

Can wrestle quietly within.

We see that learning isn’t neat,

It sometimes crawls on many feet.

We hear complaints, yet laughter rings,

Through testing times and patient things.

We feel frustration, loud and fast,

But friendship makes it never last.

From eight to three, through thick and thin,

Through factors, spellings and garden spin,

Through clay models and backyard scenes,

Through Valentine’s reds, pinks, and greens,

Our senses teach what hearts must prove:

That learning grows where there is love.

And on the wall in careful scrawl,

We write the bravest truth of all:

In every sight and sound above,

Freedom is strong…

A leader will seldom say, “I don’t have the time.” Such an excuse is usually the refuge of a small-minded and inefficient person. Each of us has the time to do the whole will of God for our lives.

Time lost can never be retrieved. Time cannot be hoarded, only spent well.

Jesus told His disciples: “Are there not twelve hours in the day?” J. Stuart Holden saw in our Lord’s words both the shortness of time and the sufficiency of time. There were indeed twelve hours in the day, but in fact there were fully twelve hours in the day.

Conscious of time, Jesus spent His time doing things that mattered. No time was wasted on things not vital. The strength of moral character is conserved by refusing the unimportant.

Often the pressure a spiritual leader feels comes from assuming tasks that God has not assigned; for such tasks the leader cannot expect God to supply the extra strength required.

At the top, the loudest voice,

The go-to. The gifted one.

But I was hollowed out inside.

The applause echoed in empty rooms.

So I step down.

Not in shame,

But in surrender.

I trade being impressive

For being faithful—

Even when no one sees.

I trade being first

For being available—

Even when it costs comfort.

I trade being right

For being teachable—

Even when it stings.

Because I don’t want to lead a pack,

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet where even the aquariums’s filter hesitates to hum.

And there I am…

staring at a timeline of life,

a scroll unrolled across our training room’s kidney table.

My eyes land on them.

Tiny, armored, curled like commas in God’s early sentences.

Trilobites.

They were never the main act,

never breathed fire,

never flew,

never roared.

But they were there

when the world was still trying to figure itself out.

Silent swimmers beneath ancient seas,

wearing exoskeletons like truth,

bare, unchanging, unapologetically themselves.

There’s something holy

about the fact that God made them.

On purpose.

Delighted in them.

Watched them scuttle and spin and fossilize.

And now, at 3 a.m.,

with my brain stuck between extinction events and today’s to-do list,

I find peace in a trilobite.

Proof that beauty can come in armored quiet.

That even in the earliest chapters of Earth’s story,

there was care.

Design.

Joy.

Maybe I don’t have to be a tyrannosaurus today.

Maybe I can be a trilobite.

Just show up.

Be small.

Be steady.

Which is Latin for:

“Help, she’s learning things

faster than she can process them.”

Her brain? Not linear.

More like: organized chaos,

tabs open, multiple subplots.

One moment she’s pondering

the doctrine of providence,

the next, she’s googling

“What are the rivers near Malvar, Batangas?”

She doesn’t always take notes neatly.

She color-codes by mood.

And yes, she asks that question

too mundane to others—

it’s compulsion. Sorry (not sorry).

But here’s the truth:

God isn’t training her into a new personality.

He’s sanctifying her within the one He gave her.

He knew what He was doing when He made her brain detail-heavy, empathy-deep,

socially inconsistent, and occasionally prone to mid-lecture theological existentialism.

When she zones out,

when she over-prepares for one part

and forgets another,

when she panics that she’s “too much” or “not enough,”

God doesn’t flinch.

He’s not grading her.

He’s forming her.

And He’s far more patient than her inner critic.

Training doesn’t make her holier

because she finishes it flawlessly.

It draws her nearer to the One

who already finished the work.

Yes, she is learning systems, timelines, and Montessori jargons in contrast

as she balances all these with theological principles.

She’s also learning how to stay rooted

when her mind wanders,

how to rest when her brain

wants to rehearse every mistake,

how to trust the Spirit—

even when she misses the “model answer”

and gives the honest one instead.

So she will not compare her notes to theirs.

She will not measure her worth

by neurotypical productivity.

She will walk through this training

with her full, intricate mind—

sometimes stimming, sometimes silent,

sometimes shining—

always carried by grace.

Because in this classroom

of faith and formation,

she is not the outlier.

She is the work in progress God delights in training.

Becoming In Grace— for when her brain is full, her soul is weary, and her spirit is still willing.

Last night, I passed a hurdle—and was promptly rewarded with a sleepover.

Not the kind with scary stories or teenage angst,

But one with tuna pesto linguine, baguette garlic bread (the crispy kind),

And a pitcher of house blend iced tea that tasted sweet with the full impact of the tea.

We broke bread—literally—and shared more than just carbs.

I was invited to serve, and strangely, found myself being nourished.

Isn’t that just like grace?

Across from me sat someone 21 years my junior.

Not a younger sister anymore, but not quite a daughter either—

Though if time had ticked differently, she could have been.

But God, in His wise reordering of the family table,

Lets us claim kin not by bloodline, but by the blood.

——

In Reformed theology, we feast on knowledge like it’s Sunday brunch:

Scripture reading? Check.

Confessions and catechisms? Check.

Lord’s Day observance? Double check, with coffee.

We acquire a Christian mind like gourmet collectors acquire cheese:

Curated, aged, and sometimes a bit too sharp for guests.

But what about a Christian mindset?

That’s harder to plate.

Because it’s not enough to know what’s good—

You have to taste it, chew it, swallow it, and let it transform you.

——

The real process is internal:

Taking all that theological pesto in your head

And letting it marinate your heart.

That means surrendering your will—especially your feelings,

Which are sometimes al dente when God is asking for tender.

To apply what we know,

We must rest not in our rightness,

But in His righteousness.

——

And like that slow-sipped iced tea, the process is refreshing—

But only when we stop rushing it.

You want to obey?

Start with gratitude.

Start with the flavor of grace.

Because the more you savor it,

The more you’ll crave obedience—not as a duty, but as a delight.

——

So here’s to the sleepover that wasn’t just about food,

But formation.

Here’s to pesto theology that goes from the brain to the bones.

Here’s to garlic bread grace that crunches just right,

And house blend sanctification—uniquely brewed for each soul.

Taste and see that the Lord is good—

Better than linguine, holier than bread,

Genre: Christian Allegory, Fantasy Adventure

Target Audience: Gen Z and Gen Alpha (ages 10–18)

Style: Narrative allegory with modern themes—screens, identity, mental health, social justice, and spiritual formation. Think The Wingfeather Saga meets Inside Out, with a rich Biblical backbone.

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Main Characters

• Sage (Mercy’s daughter): A bright, quietly courageous teen burdened with compassion fatigue. She wants to fix the brokenness around her but is crushed by the weight of “doing enough.” Her mother, Mercy, taught her gentleness, but the world seems far more chaotic than she expected.

• Matthew (Christiana’s son): Now older, wise, and walking in the Way, Matthew serves as Sage’s mentor and protector, walking the path again—but this time with eyes wide open, to train a new generation.

You were so brave. You shouldn’t have had to be—but you were.

And now, here I am… an adult, holding tools we never had before.

I know I still freeze. I still forget. But that doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

It means I’m still learning how to be safe.

And that learning is sacred.

I promise to be gentler with you.

I won’t yell at you for forgetting. I won’t shame you for struggling.

We’re not going back—we’re growing forward.

And Jesus? He’s not mad we don’t know how to use the tools yet.

He’s holding our hand, teaching us, one breath at a time.

With love,

⸻

Then the Interpreter took him by the hand, and led him into a very large parlour, where was a picture on the wall. And this was the fashion of it:

It had eyes lifted up to heaven, the best of books in its hand, the law of truth was written upon its lips, the world was behind its back; it stood as if it pleaded with men, and a crown of gold did hang over its head.

Then said Christian, “What means this?”

The Interpreter said, “The man whose picture this is, is one of a thousand. He can beget children, travail in birth with children, and nurse them himself when they are born. And whereas you see him with eyes lifted up to heaven, the best of books in his hand, and the law of truth written on his lips, it is to show you that his work is to understand and unfold dark things to sinners; even as also you see him stand as if he pleaded with men: and whereas you see the world as cast behind him, and that a crown hangs over his head, that is to show you, that slighting and despising the things that are present, for the love that he has to his Master’s service, he is sure in the world that comes next to have glory for his reward.

Now,” said the Interpreter, “I have showed you this picture first, because the man whose picture this is, is the only man whom the Lord of the place where you are going has authorized to be your guide in all the difficult places you may meet with on the way. Wherefore, take good heed to what I have showed you, and bear well in your mind what you have seen, lest in your journey you meet with some that pretend to lead you right, but their way goes down to death.”

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This image is an allegorical portrait of a faithful Christian—eyes on heaven, Scripture in hand, truth on his lips, the world behind, and glory ahead. He is wise, self-forgetting, and wholly given to the service of souls.

Recognizing a journey marked not by failure or deficiency, but by depth, reverence, and a yearning to walk rightly with God. It reminds me that spiritual maturity isn’t about striving harder—it’s about surrendering more fully.

In this season, I am being invited to receive God’s fathering—not only His instruction but His intimacy. My intellectual pursuits, especially in Montessori training, are not just vocational—they are sacred ground where God is cultivating patience, presence, and humility in me.

Emotionally, I am learning that faithfulness includes feeling. That strength is not the absence of need, but the courage to name it. I long to walk in community with honesty—not as the one who always holds space, but as one willing to be held too.

Rest is not earned—it is gifted. Joy is not frivolous—it is holy. And rhythm is not a reward—it is a mercy.

So I will not rush becoming. I will let grace pace me. I will honor the shaping, not resent it.

Because I am not falling behind. I am not failing.

I am not held together by my strength, but by Christ who sustains all things.

I do not earn love through service; I reflect the love already secured at the cross.

Even when I feel unseen, I am fully known by my Savior.

Even when I grow weary, His grace is sufficient.

I am not the light—I simply bear it.

He is my anchor when the world pulls hard on my empathy.

He is my rest when I pour out more than I take in.

He is sovereign over my seasons of solitude and service.

I don’t need to perform to have worth. I belong to Christ.

In Him, I am enough—even when I am quiet.