Dec 14, 2017. My foster son had his first sleepover with his biological family last night. The mixed emotions that came crashing were particularly intense. Everyone asks “Oh, isn’t it hard fostering, when you know that the child isn’t yours forever?”
This has always been my stock reply: “Yes it’s hard, but I think of it as I think of my nephews and nieces. I’m here for them for a season and then I’m not. I’m ok with that. And children change so rapidly anyway—they are one person today and another person tomorrow. Their identity isn’t necessarily linear. I can be in the moment loving them for who they are today, and not worry about tomorrow”.
But as an imminent reunification for my foster son and his biological family actually peeps over the horizon (one sleepover begets more sleepovers and so on and so forth), so arrives another crossroads. I thought that I would have at least a year with my little guy before I had to decide on next steps. But we may be saying goodbye soon. So now what? Do I continue fostering? Jump back into the workforce? Both?
I was expecting clearer roadsigns and maybe some shut doors. I love shut doors. They spell the way forward. But instead, God is giving me a crossroads. I hate crossroads. I don’t want to think! Just tell me what to do!
Now, I’ve wrestled with egalitarianism and complementarianism for a very long time now—that is for another post, because what is at issue is not whether or not my husband calls the shots, but a simple heeding to the wisdom of this particular friend who also happens to be my best friend and my husband. And that has always worked out well for me. All that to say, I asked my husband Andrew what he thought of this impending crossroads. So this man who happens to be my best friend affirmed again that income is not the number one driver in our decisions, that I shouldn’t be governed by fears, and that my gifting time and time again has proved to be writing.
But is there ever fear.
Like a moth to a flame, I am drawn and redrawn to the idea of writing and blogging. Over and over again in my life, people and my spirit have affirmed that this is my gifting and my calling, yet I continue to shy away from it.
I begin to suspect that there is merit to blogging when I read back on old posts. My old voice reverberates. My own voice. It echoes in a way that just rings true with my soul. It comforts me. It makes me laugh. It’s like an old friend or a cozy sweater—I can slip right into reading my own writing. But I am also afraid that no one else can slip into the comfort of hearing my voice quite as easily as I can. Might I be that ragged man, standing on a wooden soapbox on a street corner, blasting through his megaphone, oblivious to his own superfluity?
The greatest fear is that my content is useless and meaningless, trite and empty—essentially it’s the fear that I have no content worth gifting to the world. The second fear is that creativity rarely generates income. I am nearing 40. Time is slipping away. What if I pursue this track and all I continue to get is rejection? Then I will be fifty, and I will be neither famous nor rich nor relevant. I’ll have no legacy, and nothing of value that I have given to the world.
I’m also afraid that fostering again will be too hard for me to handle. I’ve joined the “mom of three” club. I’m in. I’ve tasted it. It’s been good. But along with that card comes fatigue, mommy brain, a sacrifice of hobbies, exercise, space. And a writer needs space! I know myself enough to know that I only get inspired when inspiration wants to come—and that’s usually when I’m moving out in the fresh air, biking or jogging. And even walking won’t cut it. Have to be at a high speed in order to get those neurons firing.
As I hem and haw, waylaid over the crossroads, a story knocks on my front door. And as stories are apt to do for me, this story brought enlightenment along with it.
Today, our church Moms’ group invited concert pianist Julie Lowe to share her story. I came away realizing an ever basic truth: it is not about me. It is so purely not about me. I am the stale bread in the stinky fish that Jesus is going to multiply to feed the crowd. This perspective gives so much release.
All of a sudden it doesn’t seem to matter whether or not I attack that pile of dirty dishes, whether or not I have time to spare for writing or jogging or parenting. Her testimony trivializes my worries and pares my thinking down to what is essential—to the core of what I want to see God do in me and through me. I want him to shake my character. And I want him to use that in whatever way he sees fit to bring other people closer to him. It is so simple.
I have been going about this decision making process all wrong. I’ve been asking what I like, and what I can get out of this gig instead of asking what God wants. What can God get out of this gig? It’s a both-and, of course. God won’t call me to do something that I absolutely cannot handle—i.e. something that will stultify my soul or suffocate how he has wired me. But He also won’t call me to do something that has a number one priority of merely protecting my health and sanity. There will always be an element of the foolish and the unsanitized in what he asks me to do.
As Julie Lowe spoke, her story inspired me so much it brought me to tears. Those tears were translated into a prayer that felt so inspired and so natural. Praying made me realize that my voice does have authority. That my voice is inspired by the Holy Spirit and that my voice and my gift for words and images and pictures are something from God that is meant to be used for others.
So what is in store once my foster son returns to his home for good? I still don’t know. Yup. Still at that crossroads. But one thing I do know: whatever I decide won’t be governed by fear.