a field guide to being open

In some neighborhoods, people compete with new cars or boats. In mine, it’s animals. Chickens, goats, donkeys, horses, rabbits—you name it. That’s in addition to the complimentary deer and alligators that roam our little slice of the Lowcountry.

Our yard feels more like a petting zoo meets wildlife preserve—with one particular white rabbit I’ve grown rather fond of.

He showed up about a year ago, and nestled himself below a green wall of palmettos and pampas grass outside our kitchen windows. For hours, he sat there nibbling on the vegetation completely unfazed by my two dogs losing their minds—leaping up all over the windows to get a better view.

He came back the next day and every day after. This became the norm: our rabbit lolling under the shade.

I’d grown so used to seeing my new friend from the kitchen windows that it felt odd when he didn’t appear one afternoon a few months later. But as I headed out to run errands, I was surprised—and a little relieved—to spot him on the grass posted like a sentry near the front door.

From then on, he stayed near the front of the house—completely unbothered by the world. There was something comforting about his constant presence. Rather than rushing out the door on autopilot, I found myself scanning for him and then pausing for a moment to appreciate this adorable creature that had clearly established residency. I kept thinking I should name him.

Around the same time, our younger son, Christian, was struggling in school again—not with the material, but with staying organized and on task, despite my best efforts to put systems in place to help him. The complex social dynamics of middle school weren’t helping, and each year seemed to be getting a little tougher for both of us. These challenges were quietly—and sometimes not so quietly—compounding. This made me wonder if I should explore alternatives, including homeschooling.

Realistically, was it even a viable option? We’d both barely survived virtual learning for a few weeks during COVID. Then there was the worry of depriving him of the social interaction kids need—not to mention the structure and opportunities that come with a traditional education. 

 Still, the thought kept resurfacing—especially on days when Christian came home looking and feeling defeated. I only brought it up to my husband, Jaison, a handful of times, and each time, he shut it down almost immediately, stressing the importance of social interaction, which, of course, I agreed with. He simply didn’t believe this was the answer. It was the only subject that ever felt completely off-limits in our marriage. We were stuck.

Things were reaching a boiling point at school, and while I wasn’t sure what the solution was, my gut kept pointing me toward homeschooling. Knowing the topic was pretty much off limits, I started jotting down my old ideas about learning so I could see them in black and white—everything from education and curriculum to grades, college and what actually constitutes success.  

Watching our son struggle, my husband realized something had to give. When he acknowledged that what we were doing wasn’t working—and that he’d been basing his opinion on what homeschooling looked like when he was a kid—everything shifted.

We stopped living in the problem and started looking for a solution. It turned out there were countless programs out there—nothing like what either of us remembered from our youth or what we’d imagined. The truth was, we hadn’t really considered homeschooling at all, because neither of us had actually done any research. Admitting how closed-minded we’d been was humbling for both of us.

On our way to lunch, I thanked Jaison for being willing to reconsider, grateful that we were finally open and ready to do some real investigating. We didn’t have a restaurant in mind—just figured we’d stop when we saw something that felt right. As we drove, we talked about the importance of staying open to different perspectives—not just in parenting or marriage, but in life overall.

Eventually, we pulled up to a local taco truck. It was chilly, and Jaison was wearing one of his firefighter sweatshirts, bearing the Maltese Cross. The man working the window noticed it immediately.

“Are you a firefighter?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jaison replied.

“Thank you for what you do. It’s so crazy and risky.”

“Yeah, most people don’t want to run into a burning building.”

“It’s not just the fire. It’s the smoke, the chemicals—the poisons in the air.”

“Are you interested in becoming a firefighter?”

“Oh, no. I just like to be educated about things. I’m just very open-minded.”

Jaison and I froze. Then, mouths agape, we looked at each other. Of course he was.

Later, as we were getting into our car, the man—now on break—was sitting in his truck parked right next to us. As Jaison opened my door, the man rolled down his window.

“It was great meeting you,” Jaison said as he reached out, and they shook hands. “We were just talking about being open-minded on the way here. Coming here today wasn’t an accident,” he added, laughing knowingly.

“No,” the man agreed. “I’ll be praying for you. I’m Alan.”

As we pulled into the driveway, there he was—the rabbit—right by the front door, as usual. I turned to Jaison, grinning like I’d just solved a mystery. “I’m naming him Alan.”

Each day, as I head out the door and into the world, Alan is a gentle reminder of how I want to move through life—with openness to new ideas and perspectives.