Forest LakeThe other weekend, my husband and I took our children camping. We visited a state park that we had never visited before. It was full of all the things that make camping fun for us—thick woods, twinkling nighttime stars, a crystalline lake and lots and lots of bugs. There was plenty for my children to explore and observe, and there was plenty of time away from modern life to help us disconnect from our everyday duties.

A day into our trip, we decided to explore the park’s trail system. From the road, the trails looked like easy grassy paths that led into the trees. Each was marked with a benign sign that simply read “trail.” We picked one that listed it was for bikes and ATVs. We figured that it would be big enough to maneuver our baby’s jogging stroller. Down the path we went with no idea of what we were about to encounter.

Within minutes, the trail that had been easy and smooth became washed out and rocky, pitted by large potholes and broken asphalt from some road of years gone by. To one side, the woods ascended up a high hill, and on the other side, the woods descended sharply down to the park’s lake.

We traveled on, convinced that the trail would improve or end at one of the main roads. The trail continued to wind down, and we continued after it. By the time we realized that the trail was a bad idea, we were a half-mile into it. Our only choice was to either keep going or turn around and push the stroller back up hill. We kept going.

Onward we traveled, hoping to come to a main road. Our hopes were dashed when we finally arrived at the end of the trail and a locked gate. The only way out was back from where we had come. Just as we turned around, we saw a narrow wooded trail that ascended up. Surely this would be a shortcut, we thought.

We weren’t sure the stroller would make it up the embankment, but if it did, we could exchange the long slow ascent for a steeper, but shorter, one.  I stayed at the bottom while my husband, preschooler and young daughter make the trek. Yes, it was hard, but we could make it, my husband promised. Off we went.

Working together, we huffed and puffed our way up the hill. My husband and I worked, at times one pushing and the other pulling the stroller. The children led the way, holding branches out of our way so we could pass and cheering us on with a “Come on, Mommy and Daddy, this way.” There were moments when I carried the baby because we didn’t trust the contortions of the path not to throw him out of the stroller. Onward we pushed—struggling, encouraging, laughing and eventually succeeding together. We finally found our way back to the top of the original trail—out of breath and sure that our legs would feel the effects of the adventure the following day.

It was one of those beautiful family moments, much like homeschooling itself. Was it easy? No. Could we have done it without each other’s encouragement? Probably not. Was it a richer experience with one another there, carrying part of the load? Absolutely.

It takes all of us working together to make our homes and our homeschools work. With each of us carrying part of the load and encouraging one another when times get tough, we can succeed.

Wherever you are in your homeschooling journey—at the beginning of the trail, traveling with ease, maneuvering the potholes, struggling to find a workable path or coming to the end of the journey—I pray that you—as a family—have the satisfaction of traversing this beautiful and difficult trail with the ones that matter most. And despite the bumps, bruises and aches, you will be able to say, “We did it together!”

Photo: Forest Lake in Summer by axel-d.