Like a child having a tantrum, I
slammed the front door on my way out of my house, the house that suddenly
seemed two sizes too small. I could not
stand to be in there one more second.
The noise, the arguing, the clutter, the incessant demands that never
allow me a moment of peace. I knew when
I became a foster mother that it would not be easy, but sometimes it just gets
so overwhelming that I have to step outside and get away, even if only for a
minute.
I stormed down the driveway towards
the sidewalk of my little suburban neighborhood, tears streaming down my face,
my thoughts raging, my silent prayers practically incoherent. God,
please do something! I can’t do this any
more! You brought these children into my
home, and I have trusted you to help me love them. You have got to help me!
I hadn’t gone even ten steps, when I
ran into my neighbor, who happened to be walking down the sidewalk at the same
time. Oh, great! Is there nowhere that
I can even cry in private?! Of course
on any other day, I would have been happy to see her. I would have enjoyed a brief chat with
her. But not today. I looked around in a panic, trying to find an
escape route, but it was too late. She
had already spotted me. She had already
noticed my tears.
What’s wrong,
she asked with genuine concern. I tried
to laugh it off as nothing, as just a momentary display of weakness in an
otherwise perfect world. Oh, you know, I answered, trying to
sound as nonchalant as possible, I’m just
having one of those days. There was
no way I was going to tell her how much I hated my life at that moment. How I found it almost impossible to show love
and patience towards the difficult child I had recently welcomed into my home,
how I felt belittled by the social worker who spoke so condescendingly to me,
how I felt unappreciated and misunderstood by my family, and maybe even how I
felt a little resentful towards the Lord for asking me do something so
impossibly hard. I’ll be fine, I insisted with a dismissing wave of my hand.
I had hoped that would be the end of
our conversation, but she was clearly settling in for a nice long chat. Oh, I
know just how you feel, she assured me, all sympathetic and sincere. I mean,
just yesterday . . . and as she went on and on about something to do with
ordering trophies for her son’s soccer team and coordinating a fund-raiser for
the school, my anger simmered. I could
barely contain my fury at this self-centered woman who was so oblivious to my
pain.
How dare she presume to know just
how I feel? How could she, with her one
child whom she had known since the womb, possibly understand what it’s like to
have a houseful of someone else’s children?
Someone else’s children who had been so traumatized and hurt, that their
unpredictable and challenging behavior was almost impossible to understand,
much less control.
I remained polite as humanly
possible, and then excused myself to get back to my responsibilities
inside. My shoulders drooped just a
little bit more as I entered the house even more frustrated, more defeated than
I had been when I left.
It’s never a good idea to take kids
to the grocery store. The older ones ask
incessantly for everything they see, somehow convinced that they are just one
meal away from certain starvation. The
younger ones touch everything that goes into the cart. If all of the food makes it home intact, it’s
a miracle indeed. And the
medically-fragile ones are simply a lot of work without even trying, with all
of the equipment and emergency supplies that they require. I end up pushing the wheelchair or adaptive
stroller with one hand while pulling the grocery cart with the other, with one
or more bags draped over my shoulders.
Once upon a time I would enjoy clipping coupons and challenging myself
to see how much money I could save. Now,
I challenge myself to get everything my family needs and see how much of my
sanity can remain intact.
But empty cupboards don’t fill
themselves, and so, in spite of the rough, emotional morning I had just endured,
I loaded the kids into the minivan, and we set out on our shopping adventure.
I hadn’t even made it through the
first aisle when I noticed a woman staring at me and my entourage. Oh,
great! Can’t I just make it through the
supermarket in peace?! Of course on
most days I would have been friendly and would have easily engaged in
conversation. But not today. I looked around in a panic, trying to find
an escape route, but it was too late.
She was already approaching.
Are these all your kids, she asked with genuine interest. Yes,
I answered, trying not to sound impatient, as if this wasn’t the same question
I answered on countless occasions to countless other strangers. Some of
them were adopted and some of them are our foster children. There was no way I was going to use my
precious time to give a detailed explanation.
The kids were all behaving well at that moment, and I really wanted to
finish my shopping before someone (maybe me?) had a meltdown.
I had hoped that would be the end of
our conversation, but she was clearly settling in for a nice long chat. Oh, that
is so wonderful, she gushed, to take
all those kids and care for them like you do! And as she went on and on about something to
do with being a saint and having a special place reserved for me in heaven, I
cringed. No, no, no! I wanted to cry. If you only knew the truth. It’s
not about me at all. It’s all about the
grace!
Obviously she hadn’t seen me earlier
in the day when I had stormed out of my house.
Very few people (except, apparently, my neighbor) see the tears and the
exhaustion and the frustration. I’m not
a saint, not at all! I’m selfish and
impatient and so easily prone to anger and pride. I am so lacking in wisdom!
God loves these children so fiercely
and passionately, and for some reason that I cannot fathom, He chose inadequate
me to care for them. It’s not because
I’m such a good person or have such a big heart; it’s only because God, in His
infinite grace, has allowed me to be a part of His plan. His work.
His story. He didn’t ask me to do
this impossible task; He allows me the great honor of watching as He, miraculously, in unexpected ways,
does the impossible task.
And when I stop to consider the
great privilege, the amazing grace that He has demonstrated towards me, I can’t
help but think, shouldn’t I be showing that same grace to my neighbor? So what if her life, her burdens, her story
is different than mine? How dare I
compare myself to her and for one second allow pride to deceive me into
thinking that my sacrifice, my service to the Lord, is more worthy than
hers? Perhaps I am the self-centered woman who is so wrapped up in my own
struggles that I am oblivious to her
pain.
But again . . . it’s all about the
grace!
Even in my imperfections, in my
failures, in the sinful pride that I harbor in my heart – even then He stands
ready to forgive me. Even then His grace
is sufficient for me.1
He didn’t choose me for this task
because I am the most capable. By grace
He qualifies me to participate in His story.2
When I fail, when my thoughts rage
and my frustrations cause my silent prayers to be practically incoherent . . . He
doesn’t condemn me. By grace He saved me.3
When my house, the house that sometimes
seems two sizes too small closes in on me and I cannot take it one more second
. . . by grace I stand.4
Oh, that I may understand that
beautiful grace – how to receive it and how to extend it!
It’s not about me or about my
difficulties or about my “success” as a parent or about what my neighbor is
doing or about what the woman at the store thinks of me. It’s all about Him. It’s all about the grace!
1.
And He said to me, “My grace is
sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” – 2 Corinthians
12:9
2.
Giving thanks to the Father who has
qualified us to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in the light. –
Colossians 1:12
3.
For God did not send His Son into
the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved.
– John 3:17
4.
Through [Christ] whom also we have
access by faith into this grace in which we stand. – Romans 5:2
No comments:
Post a Comment