More Room

 

"How many grandkids do you have?" The seemingly straightforward question had sent her already-wrinkled face into even deeper creases of focus, as she began to count on her fingers.  But when she eventually ran out of fingers, and began to explain to me the complicated assortment of grandchildren, stepgrans and "like" grans whom she called her own, it became clear that this grandmother's hesitancy to give an answer had not been due to dementia.  Nor had she lost track of distant, long-lost relatives across the country.  Quite the opposite.  This grandmother could hardly keep count of her own because she had spent her lifetime adding chairs to her table.  She had extended her arms past her bloodlines, and freely offered up her name and role of "Nana" to any who would accept... regardless of last names.  

Have you met a grandma like this one?  I have.  And one day, I hope to be her.

Unfortunately, though, this is not the norm.  In fact, I could list off several grandparents I know who refuse to "count" all of their grandchildren, because they don't meet their definition of "mine".  How many grandkids do you have?  They too are asked this question.  But whether due to being a step-child or a half-sister, an adopted or foster child, or even a biological grandchild who has been labeled rebellious or rejected, these grandparents delineate between which family members they will claim.  

It breaks my heart. 

And it also makes me grateful.  For my family is not this way.  

Both our biological families and our church family have held out their arms, unhesitatingly, when we added a foster baby to our brood.  And when I say they have "held out their arms", I don't simply mean they have approved of our choice. I mean we couldn't do it without them.  I mean, they have filled out background checks to be able to provide respite care. They have showered us with strollers and bedding and baby clothes.  They have listened with tears to our grief and frustration.  They have prayed with passion for him and his family of origin.  They have rejoiced with us when he catches up with another milestone
.  They have been enraged at injustice, and offered us gospel perspective when we were overwhelmed with our own powerlessness.  

They have made the harder choice, to say yes to another chair at the table.  

It's not easy to open up your heart and your home to a child, knowing that the more you love him or her, the greater your heart will ache.  As my sisters and brothers decide that they, too, will love him as their own, they, too are choosing a broken heart.  They, too, will need to lean on Jesus in order to love fully, despite uncertain outcomes.  And they, too, are representing the God who-- despite his exalted place of comfort-- stepped into our world of suffering, bearing the cost out of love.  

And so, when my mother-in-law calls our little guy "Nueve", her nickname for her ninth grandchild, I smile.  When my niece breaks into tears when she finds out that Little Buddy will one day go back home, I can weep with her.  When my husband reads his father's eulogy, listing our foster son as one of his grandchildren, my heart feels it will burst with both gratefulness and sorrow.  

This is what it is to be in the Lord's family.  Inheriting the richest name, and sharing it generously.  Experiencing the deepest kindness, and then letting it overflow into our lives.  Accepting his gift of great sacrifice, and then walking in the same. 

"We need to add his fingerprint to our family tree," my mom says.  

"Well, we don't know how long we'll have him. What if we end up having ten foster kiddos?" I wonder. 

Her beautiful response: "There's lots of room on there."

There's lots of room.  I know this is true of my Father's table, and I pray it will be true of my own. 

There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? (John 14:2)