A Good Life...or a Godly One?

Three Sundays ago I was minding my own business, doing my part singing in the choir, as I do every week. I had a heart to worship, was looking forward to communion, but other than that wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary.

When out of nowhere a thought entered my head, seemingly without context, unprovoked, unrelated to anything in my life. But there it came, like something alive, with form and weight, and there it has stayed, setting up residence these fifteen days.

The thought was this: “What about becoming a foster parent?” Somewhere between the first song and communion these words slipped in, and instead of drying up and blowing away the way they came in, have stubbornly taken root, demanded my time and attention, refused to go away.

Before I could put up my defenses, I was flooded with thoughts in favor of such a thing. There’s such a need. You’ve been given so much. What about “being poured out”, doing things “unto the least of these”? And then during communion, “This is My body, broken for you…” and I’m not willing to set an extra plate at my abundantly supplied table?

Then Cole speaks about readiness and I think about how the need will only increase as the economy worsens and shouldn’t we as the church be ready to help, to be His light? Then he says those who desire to live a godly life will be persecuted, and I think how I’ve got my life so arranged that that’s very unlikely. His final haunting refrain, more words that I can’t escape, “We want a good life, not a Godly one.”

I think, “This idea is crazy.” Must be a hormone imbalance, a midlife crisis, a latent search for significance – something to explain this unwanted intrusion. It’ll go away by the morning. No need to tell Pat. If it is anything, God will tell him, too. That’ll be the fleece.

But it doesn’t go away. Monday morning I tell Pat who, ever the servant willing to say yes to the hardest and crummiest jobs, says, “We’ll have to look into it.” That afternoon I find myself googleing foster care; the kids see and ask what’s up. “I don’t know,” I say with tears, not sure whether they’re from self-pity, having been blindsided with this, for the hundreds of children needing a home, or just the joy from sensing God’s action in my life.

The next day I start reading my book club book, “The Glass Castle”, the memoir of a woman who grew up in a family so impoverished, so messed-up, that she at one point during her childhood, fantasizes that a beautiful foster family is coming to take her and her siblings away. While at the library getting that book, I check out “Hope’s Boy”, another memoir, but this one written by a boy who lived in foster care. If I’m wanting this idea to go away, I’m certainly not acting like it.

It’s a busy week, but I find time to ask Pat, “Are you still thinking about this?” “Yeah. And I keep coming up with objections. But they’re all just selfish.” I’d done the same thing, except I’d used the word “shallow”.

One afternoon, the smell of dinner cooking, listening to music playing on my newly refurbished stereo system, I look at Joanna,who is bent over her schoolbooks, happily studying, the sun shining through the window highlighting her hair. The scene is like a Dutch painting – a tranquil home, blessed with all that is good. I cry this time, overwhelmed with how much we have, how much we could share, that there should be enough love for someone else.

So I’ve gone from expecting the idea to go away, to distress that it hadn’t, to this current place of openness and even hope that we could actually do this some day. Mostly I’m humbled that God would consider me enough to speak to me, to get my attention, to nudge me to join my husband on his well-worn road of servanthood.

Whether we end up doing this or not, the question has left its mark on me, done its exploratory surgery, revealed that I had succumbed in great measure to desiring a good, safe life. I had managed to sew up tightly my life and lifestyle, content with lines that had fallen in pleasant places, resistant to things that might spell trouble, the down and dirty, sacrifice. I’ve discovered that I live in a family of servants: my own children and husband, who each so readily welcomed the idea of opening their hearts, sharing their home, following wherever Christ might lead. May I deserve to be in such company, to live a life worthy of Jesus' name, ready to go, ready to stay, willing to hold His people in my heart.