One Turn

“$134,500.”

My jaw hit the floor. At best, I would have guessed a couple thousand, which would itself have been justifiable cause for celebration. But I had long forgotten about the copy of the will that had been sent to the library many months ago and had begun this particular day with no expectations whatsoever. A seemingly routine call would change everything.

“How much?!” My elevated tone must have implied insult on the other end of the call, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“Is that not enough?” the executor replied. After reassurances to the contrary, we shared a laugh and then commenced discussing the details of the late Mr. Lee’s bequest to the Clear Lake City-County Freeman Branch Library, which I had been managing for just over a year. I then would do my best to wait patiently for the check in the mail. In other professions, such as my wife’s chosen field of chemical engineering, cash like that is chump change, here and gone in the course of an afternoon. In a public library, it’s a windfall of serious capital. We had just won the lottery.

Nine years previously, I had trepidatiously begun my career as a public librarian at this branch, which was on the cusp of closing the doors to its third architectural iteration, circa 1970s, and reopening in a state-of-the-art facility almost four times larger directly across the parking lot. At the forefront of my mind was my uncertainty from the first day I was placed alone on the reference desk whether having earned the degree would prove time and money well-spent, or if I should have instead opted for choice number two — to be all I could be in the U.S. military. Had I selected the latter, which I nearly did, the following year would have further altered my fortunes in the service of my country after the tragic collapse of a pair of towers on home soil. It’s anyone’s guess where I might have found myself deployed and what fate would have awaited me in some remote corner of a world in conflict. As it would happen, I selected study over soldiering, and so I landed among books instead of a battlefield.

After a year as an entry-level librarian on the front line of public service at this branch in and around the Johnson Space Center community, I nearly threw in the towel and ventured to other less turbulent waters, so to speak, or so I thought. I knew not what to expect after taking a job working for the general populace, and I certainly didn’t expect to be treated so poorly and ungratefully by the everyday folks I was sincerely trying to help. More often than not, the interactions were admittedly positive, and I proved myself capable of pinning down the answers they sought. But it’s true that one bad apple can spoil the bunch, in this case the bunch being the collective patron interactions in a given day. A single, truly negative encounter is a pall over one’s work day if you allow it to be, as I did time and again. I’d had enough of this entitled crowd, and so I would roll the dice and see if I could find better patrons elsewhere.

I was still too green to understand that working directly with the public simply opens yourself to encounters with difficult people. It comes with the territory. Changing the scenery is no solution. They’ll find you. In almost 18 years in the profession, I’ve observed there are many long-time front-liners who remain nervous and perplexed about this reality and who continue searching in vain for a remedy that will never present itself outside of themselves.

In any event, I attempted an escape to another large municipal system and was offered a position. Upon arriving for a day of preliminaries and paperwork, I stepped unwittingly into a HR disaster. At least one of many new-hires was wise to the dysfunction and walked out within the first 15 minutes, expressing her disgust at having wasted a day of vacation for this. I, on the other hand, decided to stick it out. The situation did not improve. By the time the day was done, it was discovered that none of us were informed about documents we were required to bring with us, after repeated inquiries they still had not determined at which of the many branches each of us would be placed (an important detail when searching for a spot nearby to lay your head), and, oh, by the way (as we all were departing in the late afternoon on our long respective routes home), there is one more stop here in town we neglected to tell you about; you’ll have to use additional leave time from your present job in order to return and take care of it. As if this weren’t enough, I was provided one final disappointment — I was not being hired for the position for which I interviewed but a step and pay grade beneath it.

Now, I do believe in providence. The 8th chapter and 28th verse of Romans I often forget to apply duly to any and every circumstance. This was a rare moment when a prayer for direction earlier in the day when circumstances began to deteriorate returned an answer as clear as fine crystal. The inept crew at this particular HR department were hardly working for the good of those they called and, by all appearances, were under the impression they were paid instead to sabotage their employer by repelling new-hires. On the flip side, I left with the bittersweet certainty that I should stay put where I was, and I was fortunate to learn that I would be welcomed gratefully back to the branch in Clear Lake, two-week notice notwithstanding.

______________

How does one determine the will of God? Why, in that moment, did I interpret circumstances as an indication he wanted me to stay where I was? Why could it not, from an agnostic perspective, simply have been what it was on the face of it — an incompetent organization in desperate need of improved hiring practices?

I can’t imagine a scenario in which I could irrefutably prove to anyone that God was indeed guiding me that day. I am not a skilled apologist, I have learned, so I’ll make no attempt here. I do think, however, that if all of us were honest with ourselves, there is plenty that each of us accepts on faith, though the substance of that faith may differ. As for me, I have seen and experienced enough, especially while I was under my parents roof, that convinced me of a good God who is involved in the world, and it has informed and shaped my faith over the years. But I also don’t believe I had no choice in the matter; I wasn’t irresistibly compelled to believe, though it could be argued I would be foolish and stubborn not to. Choice, I find, is still left to us, though God may be sovereign. It is just a part of what it means, I think, to be created in his image.

Dostoyevsky may have said it best in his novel “The Brothers Karamazov,” suggesting that we may willfully apply our preconceptions when interpreting events, personal or not, particularly if one is a realist/unbeliever:

“The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact. Even if he admits it, he admits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous also.”

I wouldn’t say I encountered miracles as much as intervention that day. Nevertheless, it is left to us to choose an interpretation based on the substance of our faith. I could have proceeded with the move, I suppose. The truth was, I was running from a difficult situation in an attempt to make my own life more comfortable, or so I thought. There is value in facing challenges, though many of us are conditioned to interpret them as a sign to seek an easier, more convenient way.

While I believe God was making use of circumstances to influence my decision, there was another hard truth I needed to understand — running from a challenge may involve nothing more than running towards another. Life isn’t always best lived seeking one simple, convenient, and pleasant path after another. If it’s not the frustration of dealing with contentious patrons, it will undoubtedly be something else. And sometimes, one difficult choice, one turn, if you will, is all that’s needed to make a world of difference in your life or mine.

______________

John Lee Hancock, like me, grew up in the blue-collar, chemical refinery town of Texas City. I would venture to guess that our similarities end there, but I have found it curious that there isn’t a movie director in present-day Hollywood whose films I am almost guaranteed to appreciate more consistently than his. In any event, his film “The Highwaymen,” released in 2019 on Netflix, tells the story of the manhunt for notorious killers Bonnie and Clyde from the perspective of the former Texas Rangers commissioned to track them down. Leading the pursuit is Frank Hamer, played convincingly by Kevin Costner, with Woody Harrelson in the role of his partner, Maney Gault.

Midway through the plot, Hamer pays a visit to Clyde’s father in Dallas. Perhaps seeing little to gain from either in the investigation, the pair use the encounter instead to wax philosophic on the nature of choice and fate. “One turn on the trail,” each utters familiarly, suggesting the notion of a course in one’s life set and determined irrevocably once a pivotal choice is made. While the elder Barrow’s imploring for his son takes issue with the idea that the choice reveals one’s inherent, inescapable nature, Hamer illustratively applies the phrase to himself, describing a single moment chosen in his youth that, he believed, dramatically altered and fated his life’s profession. The choice, the one turn, changed everything.

______________

My wife and I were once good friends without a hint of attraction between us. I still believe friendships can evolve into some of the best marriages, but that’s a topic for another time. Over a decade ago, I don’t remember precisely when, she was in the process of purchasing her first home, and I happened to be the friend available to whom she first decided to show it. We turned into the neighborhood, down the street, and then parked alongside the curb in front of the house. She excitedly shared the details with me for a few minutes seated there in her sedan.

Now, at that moment, I had no idea about what the years ahead held for me and how this casual afternoon stop was as much about what was in store for me as for her. Had my future self spontaneously appeared in the back seat to drop unwelcome spoilers, I wouldn’t have bought a thing he was selling; I wouldn’t have been prepared to hear any of it:

“Let me tell you what’s about to go down, Jim. First, this house. Take a good look, because a lot is going to happen right here for you. Your name will eventually be on the title. Yes, you heard that right. You don’t know it yet, but this is also your first home, which leads me to my second surprise. The girl seated next to you is the one you’ve been after for so long. She’ll figure it out before you do, but once you recognize it, you’ll have difficulty imagining anyone else better suited for you. Cue wedding bells. Third, you two will start a family right here. Maybe that’s not surprising, but here’s the kicker — you’re going to forgo the baby stage and acquire three older kiddos in one blow. Oh, also, they will bear absolutely no resemblance to you whatsoever. I’ll just leave it at that. Fourth, that great big library you unsuccessfully tried to escape several years ago? They’re going to put you in charge of it. Yes, you. Moreover, you and the staff will be afforded rare but rewarding opportunities to make significant impacts on the community, impacts that will be publicized even outside of the city and state. Much of it will begin with a phone call you aren’t expecting about the generosity of a man you’ll never meet.”

I never for a second would have believed any of that. But it did, in fact, happen. And it might not have had I ignored how I was being directed and had instead effected my flight a few years previous.

Time and hindsight reinforce anyone’s faith, I find. The downside is, of course, the waiting. I feel as if I daily face doubt about the goodness of God while dealing with one irritating, sometimes disheartening, challenge after another, especially in this stage of life raising kids in the home. Assurance can be long in coming while buried in the grind. But when I pause to look back on that day and see all of the remarkable things that have followed because, I believe, I obediently chose to stay, how could I not believe in a good God?

We’re taught in Scripture that not one of us is beyond the grace of God; not even a single choice can alter that. However, time isn’t returned to us, which makes each choice more valuable as the minutes slip away. It’s the earliest turn that stands the best chance of affecting the greater share of all those that follow. And that’s good news for those who believe in a good God.

Chapter 2: Dalhart

Carving broad lines into the dirt, he circled the tractor at the edge of the field his father farmed as a hired hand, straightened it out, and started anew. Plowing one endless furrow after another, Joel stole a longing glance at the cars speeding past on the adjacent road, each headed anywhere but here. Family duty held him firmly in the driver’s seat of the tractor’s cabin, though he would gladly relinquish it for a ride in the backseat of even the slowest vehicle escaping this dry and dusty patch of land outside of Dalhart. While he would later appreciate the work ethic instilled in him by his father, who expected him and his brothers to do their part by participating in the family trade as long as they remained under his roof, he derived no pleasure in farming and anticipated after graduation a life outside of such a town that offered few, if any, other means of making a living, even to this day.

Granted, there was nothing to discredit the modest, deliberately-paced community of Dalhart, so named for its establishment between Dallam and Hartley counties in the Texas Panhandle. Then again, there was nothing much to its credit either, in Joel’s opinion. Living in a small agrarian town suited men like his father, who had spent his entire life there, was devoted to his trade, and knew as much about the world outside of it as he wanted to and nothing more. In a way, Dalhart was a refuge from the busy, chaotic world beyond beyond its borders. Even my grandfather’s television, a veritable window in one’s living room opened to the wider world, was, as I recall in his later years, rarely tuned to anything other than golf or the weather; there was little else that captured or required his attention, and this by choice. I once asked him if he had ever considered living anywhere else, myself having recently arrived for a visit from the sprawling, noisy metropolis of Houston. “What?!” he exclaimed. “You’d have to be crazy to want to leave this place!”

My father shared no such sentiment, a fact that did not evade the attention of his own father. It isn’t a stretch to say that the numerous years David Johnson had spent working the land as a matter of necessity had become stitched inseparably into his very identity. To have a son who did not find equal meaning in this respectable form of labor was to suffer a personal affront. He was not an emotionally demonstrative man, however, though his departure from his childhood home as a teenager was contentious, to say the least. He made a rebellious escape of his own from a father with whom he didn’t see eye to eye and never once looked back in regret. Exiting the dust-bowl era, he found a way to make life work for him in spite of an unfinished formal education, eloping with his teenage bride, Zola Faye McBrayer, and focusing his life’s labor on tending the land. Five kids were to follow, Joel the fourth in line, preceded by Peggy, Nancy, and Steve, and trailed by Don.

Zola Faye’s fourth was an unplanned pregnancy. To make matters worse, conception was discovered following a procedure his mother had undergone known obstetrically as a “D and C,” which involves clearing tissue from the uterine lining. No viable pregnancy is biologically equipped to withstand such a procedure under the best of circumstances. Upon learning of the mistake, the doctor counseled abortion, convinced the fetus either would not survive or would be born unhealthy or severely disabled. Zola Faye refused. Defying the odds, the baby would be born to term, alive and healthy. She would give him the prophetic Biblical name “Joel,” meaning declaratively “Yahweh (the Lord) is God.” The improbable birth would be documented in medical literature. I would first hear this story many years later in a sermon delivered by my father, who shared of his mother’s conviction that it presaged a life determined for a special purpose or moment.

Whatever that purpose might be, this story would lend Joel a profound sense of God having miraculously intervened in his life long before he possessed a formed mind to perceive it. The words of Psalm 139 might as well had been penned by him, who, incidentally, was given the middle name “David” by his mother and father.

“Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

Central to this sense of meaning and purpose was the church, and for the Johnson household, attendance was routine and expected for all in the family. His father, David, arrived early every Sunday to open the doors of the First Baptist Church of Dalhart, his deaconly duties extending only insofar as gatekeeper and collector, namely offertory contributions and attendance numbers in Sunday School classes. Aside from this, he characteristically could be relied upon to shutter his eyes during the service not in meditation or prayer but in slumber. Yes, the pastoral message was important; he diligently brought his family each week, after all. It seems, however, he was simply a man who was at his best and most alert when moving, and a sermon afforded little opportunity for that. Zola Faye, by contrast, kept conscious and active attention, teaching the young married’s class, singing in the choir, and occasionally serving as pianist and, for several years, church secretary. As for Joel and his brothers and sisters, they were present and accounted for given the doors were open — Girls in Action, Royal Ambassadors, childrens and youth choir, Sunday evening church training, vacation Bible school, etc. Religious or not, one’s best social opportunities in a small town at that time were often provided by an engaged church, and the Johnsons’ extracurricular activities would imply it was practically a second home for them.

Growing up, Joel’s interests inclined toward literature. His oldest sibling, Peggy, unwittingly practicing for her eventual career in education, taught him to read before he ever set foot in a classroom. Once children’s stories were covered, he moved on to the family encyclopedia, an educational staple of many mid-20th century American homes. Further along than most by the time first grade began, he and another student were permitted in their reading class to occupy a corner of the classroom and lose themselves in any available story that seized their interest. He acquired a library card at the earliest opportunity and pored over every book on the shelves detailing the history of World War II and the Civil War. The daring adventures penned by Alistair MacLean were his favorite. When these were exhausted or unavailable, Readers Digest bound and abridged novels that amply lined his mother’s shelves would do. To this day, my father’s preferred posture is seated comfortably in a recliner with an open book. Conscious of it or not, he was building habits and forming values that would extend to his own children years later. My own career choice of librarianship undoubtedly began its formation during those early reading lessons decades ago between my aunt and father. For those of us led to believe we are the masters of our own fate, I would argue that nurture and influence stretch much further back into our familial past than we might imagine.

At 15, a friend loaned him “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy. “It’s a dangerous business,” Tolkien writes, “going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” Joel would spend hours discussing the volumes with his friend, enthralled not only at the exploits of the nine but, more importantly, moved by the spiritual themes undergirding the patient, expansive story, which, like many others he read, depicted places, real or imagined, dissimilar to the one he inhabited, fueling a desire to tread his own path into the unexplored world once given the opportunity. Something greater and deeper than the adventures he had read about continued to stir within, inspiring him soon to begin taking his first steps into a vocational life of faith.

Whether it was the stress of this call that weighed upon him or simple adolescent immaturity, Joel found himself during his senior year succumbing for a season, due to the influence of friends, to more than a passing interest in alcohol, a developing habit that he managed to conceal from his abstinent parents. Late in the academic year, he would pass evenings several times a week with friends overindulging. He didn’t relish the taste, but it did the job and did it well. Certain evenings passed out of memory entirely; the manner in which he made it home on these occasions were left a mystery.

There are few times in life that bear stronger potential to form both our best and worst habits than adolescence, and at his rate, alcoholism could thereafter have grasped and held him captive with relative ease if left unchecked. Had it succeeded, the story told here would read differently or, perhaps, not be read at all. To our great fortune, however, resourcefulness is one of God’s most enduring though often overlooked qualities. Every tool is at his disposal to shape our circumstances and character as he sees fit. He would recognize in due time what awaited him without an adjustment and would, thankfully, quit cold turkey. He would never touch another drop. The lessons learned would be put to good use, as they should for any seasoned minister. There is no shame in possessing a past, especially if it offers a personal education on the meaning of grace. And who better to comprehend and appreciate the lessons of one’s past in humility than those committed to professional ministry in the service of others, each with their own pasts? Christ saves us all from something.

Joel had spent abundant time pondering these and other spiritual matters for much of his brief life thus far, which led him eventually to consider whether it hinted at a call to a career focused wholly on God’s work. But to what, exactly? The works of Scripture, especially in the Old Testament, do not always describe the “call” of God in precisely the way many of us understand it today. Then, the Levites fulfilled the “professional” function, but primarily due to bloodline; it was a “default calling,” if you will. Many of those “called” who we read about were tasked with a very specific job in mind that did not necessarily carry a socially- or culturally-defined title that limited their role and responsibilities: be fruitful, build an ark, father a nation, lead my people, conquer, save my people, be anointed as king, rebuild the city, etc. All were called of God, but to an ordained task, not a defined title. I have met those who pursued a call in seminary who did not belong there, and I have known instructors who shared that observation. While there is no clear fault in following a call in the best way we know with the information we have, it’s wise to consider that we may limit God to think he can work with us only within the confines of professional ministry, though it most certainly has its place.

As best as Joel could surmise, just as many others do, his call should be pursued as a leader and shepherd of a congregation much like the one of which he’d long been a part, so he duly set out to obey prayerfully in the best way he saw fit. Consulting with his church’s pastor as well as select deacons in the body, he was approved and officially licensed into ministry. The duration of his first sermon barely gave listeners time enough to warm their seats after only seven minutes in the pulpit, but the brevity was no discouragement to him. Joel would continue in that direction.

At long last, graduation arrived. He summarily struck out on the road leading from town, blazing past furrowed fields over which he’d once driven. From here, there would be no stolen glances toward the tractors carving the dirt hours on end, though perhaps the metaphorical but fitting words of Christ, to whom he had pledged himself, echoed in his mind as he fixed his gaze forward and forged ahead.

“No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

Just as the plow prepares the ground for the growth it will foster, Joel was unknowingly headed not yet into a life of career ministry but rather one of patient preparation for a task God had designed for him years later, a task which he would share with another. Her story began many miles southeast of the quiet farmlands spread across the Panhandle, nearer the noisy, steam-pluming refineries stretching along the lengthy coasts of the Gulf. Hers was a different hope for the future they would soon inhabit together.

Prelude to Risk, pt. 2 (or Final Chapter)

“We have to make a decision today.”

I’ve been stalling for at least a month.

January 2017. Earlier in the previous year, my wife and I took in two siblings and will, in a few weeks, adopt them as our own. It has been a long and laborious process up to this point. The adjustment to parenting is the only thing, for me, that has been more trying. From zero to two is an almost imperceptible change if you’re talking about the speed of a vehicle. If, however, you’re referring to the number of older children in your home versus only moments ago, no adjustment I’ve experienced in 40 years compares.

I’ve just begun to settle into the new routines, priority changes, loss of “me” time, etc., that parenting brings with it, not to mention the difficulties raising kids from trauma. If I’m honest with myself, I’m still not sold on the approaching adoption day and terrified that this is a mistake. There’s no turning back after that. Now we’re being asked to take in a third — their sister. While my wife’s answer was a resounding, knee-jerk “Yes!”, she dialed-back her open-hearted enthusiasm when it was clear I hadn’t yet arrived there with her. We would, instead, think about it. She would pray and hope earnestly that I would change my mind.

A month later, and the new year has barely begun, as has my day. Waking up to get myself ready for work, I answer a call from my wife, who has already begun her workday. The time to make a decision had come, our caseworker informed her. She needed an answer today.

I do not want to do this.

It’s been hard enough becoming an instant parent of two. More than once, I’ve felt like quitting. I can’t imagine taking on yet another, who, we learn, will bring her own set of challenges. In short, we would be the fifth primary caregivers in her brief seven years of life — a fact to which I can’t relate to any of my own life experiences.

Overwhelmed at the thought, I tell my wife I need some time. I call work to tell them I won’t be coming. Instead, I face the inevitable and prepare to wrestle with God.

I want an answer, and I’d like it to come unmistakably from Him.

_________________

It’s long been easy for me to read the stories in Scripture, especially those in the early Old Testament books, as if God speaks to the key characters in direct, grandiose ways just as frequently as we might pick up the phone and text or call one another today. It takes only a few seamless moments to read many of these accounts as if one divine interaction follows the next, as routine or as common as walking from here to there. Such a belief can further lead to the self-critical idea that I don’t hear quite so often as that from God, and certainly not in such grand fashion, so I can hardly consider myself as intimate with Him as an Adam, a Noah, or a Moses.

Read-time is not real-time, however. Between punctuation, paragraphs, and chapters, especially in the Old Testament accounts, there is the undocumented drudgery of the day to day; there are actual days, months, years, sometimes decades or longer, between “burning bush” kinds of moments. Instead, there is the silence of God. I would argue, in fact, that we overlook the abundance of His silence in these characters’ stories. Granted, this doesn’t mean He wasn’t acting or speaking in these segues. The writers, inspired of God, only tell us what we most need to know. Yes, he may speak to me in many simple, quiet ways on a daily basis, if I’m attentive, but many of the monumental divine intercessions or pronouncements writ large in Scripture are fewer and farther between if you stretch them out into actual time.

This I find reassuring, and it adjusts my expectations of God. My faith in Him and confidence that He is ever-present to me shouldn’t depend on whether or not I experience frequent moments in which He parts the clouds for a special revelation. Many, many more times than we read, I am certain, Moses, for example, got up, went about his day, and eventually retired for the night, only to do the same the following day and the day after that. On almost all of those days, I am certain water acted like water does and neither parted across a sea nor sprang from a rock. It’s not exciting, but much of the time we spend in our lives isn’t. It’s simply life as it is.

Nevertheless, God is still present in the day-to-day routines, and it’s often in these periods that our faith is most tested. He will speak to us in the manner he chooses when he chooses to do so, or He may not. Sometimes, however, we hope and pray that He does so in such an intimate and direct way as we read in Scripture so that we are forever changed, our life altered.

Sometimes, He may give us just that, even when what He has to say may not be what we want to hear.

______________

I decide to change my surroundings and venture to a local park. I turn off my phone. Maybe a little dose of nature and evasion of distractions will persuade God that I’m serious, that I’m holding my calls for Him, so to speak.

I find a picnic table and sit down, read a few verses here and there, meditate, journal, say exactly what’s on my mind. I wait. I listen. I repeat.

Nothing.

After what feels like an eternity, I impatiently get up, move around, and take a walk. A few scattered times in my adulthood, I’ve imagined Christ by my side on one of my strolls, keeping pace with me, just being present, if for no other reason than to be a comfort, a reassurance in a world characteristically more chaotic than ordered. After a while, though, I sense it’s just me.

Dejected and impatient, I change direction and walk to the van. God may have nothing to say to me about this. What’s more likely is that I’m simply not very good at listening to Him. I shouldn’t expect Him to speak to me as He has in so many ways to my parents. I need to accept it, make a decision about this, and move on with life.

I get in, decide to clear my head, and just drive. I head south on the freeway. About 20 minutes in, I drift off the exit towards my childhood hometown. I’m soon coasting past old familiar places down the main thoroughfare. The car eventually makes a left turn, then another left. It stops along the curb behind a park where my siblings, neighborhood friends and I often played. I don’t know why I’ve come here.

Across the field in the park, I see our old backyard at my childhood home. The architecture hasn’t changed after 24 years, but the paint and landscaping have. Someone else calls it home now. I wonder what memories they’ve made there.

I get out of the car and stroll to a bench. I take nothing with me. Arms stretched across the back, I just sit and take it in. I stare at the back of the house across the short distance. I’m not sure I’m really listening for anything anymore. I relax, sit back, and remember what was, back when life was simpler and I was blissfully unaware.

After an hour or two, a little bored and unenlightened, I get up and head back to the car. I don’t know what I’ll do or where I’ll go from here, but it seems God doesn’t want to show up. I’ve invited Him, but He has no interest in offering even a meager shred of advice on how to proceed. Forget it, then. I’ll figure this out on my own. Maybe He did, after all, just wind this universe up at the beginning and casually amble away to pursue other interests, leaving us with the mess we’ve made.

I sit down and shut the door. Reaching for the ignition, I press the button and start the car.

______________

“It’s time.”

I’m 15 again, sitting on the floor of my empty room. My mother’s words echo as the tears start to flow. She sits down beside me and wraps her arms around me. I’m saying goodbye to my home once more, the only home I’ve ever known.

Then I hear Him.

“You left your home once at 15. Your family left with you. I brought you to this place specifically to remember that.

“This child is the fragile age of 7. By the time she makes her way to you, it will be her fourth departure in her brief life from places that only resemble a home. Her family is not with her. She doesn’t understand it all, can’t process it, and is otherwise alone. I’m giving you this opportunity to change her reality, to give her a home that’s truly a home, one that she will never have to leave again.

“It’s time — time for you to take a risk. Your parents had theirs, but this is uniquely yours. I’m not asking you to venture to the other side of the world; that was for them, not for you.

“I will not promise you that taking this child — these children — as your own will be easy. In fact, you know it won’t be. I will not even tell you how it all will end, whether it will seem worth it. It is, however, what I want you to do.”

______________

Scripture tells us that God is sovereign. If I believe this, then I know His purposes will be accomplished. Moreover, I believe He chooses to use us as vessels to do His work. With or without us, He will do what He says.

Nevertheless, I can’t help but wonder — what if my parents had said “no”? What if they had turned their backs to their call, though doubtless about what they had been told and who had spoken to them?

What if they stayed?

Would God, as with Jonah, have bore down on them to any and every corner of the earth to which they fled, using whatever means at His disposal to exhaust them until they obeyed, albeit reluctantly? Or would He have simply changed His mind, searched, and found another to finish the job, leaving them to puzzle in their final remaining years, filled with regret about what might have been?

Maybe, just maybe, after all, they had a choice even then, notwithstanding God’s sovereignty. I can’t search it out, and it isn’t long before I find I don’t want to. Of all for which I have to be grateful in my life, I’m relieved I do not have to linger or obsess on what would have been had they remained where they were. As with Frost’s less-traveled road, their choice to go has made all the difference.

___________

I’m back in my car, tears streaming down my face, just like the 15 year old about to leave his home on a journey not of his choosing. I now know what I have to do, but it doesn’t feel inevitable. I have to choose.

I’m afraid and uncertain. I feel inadequate, unprepared, and ill-equipped. My parents once felt this way as well, on the edge of a risk, but much greater than this. This time, however, I’m in the driver’s seat as I prepare to leave this place once again.

“Go from your country, your people, and your father’s household to the land I will show you.”

I think it is no accident that the story of Abram has found itself placed near the beginning of Scripture. It is a simple yet relatable story to which many thereafter found and still find themselves directed by God as an encouragement to take the first step. As one author put it in his own famed, world-building story, “It’s a dangerous business . . . going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

Abram’s faith journey begins anew each time we receive a call from Him and choose to obey. The call isn’t the same for each of us, but He calls us each to something. Reflecting on this, I make my decision.

I put the car in gear.

“So Abram went, as the Lord had told him.”

Peace on Earth

“The truth is out there.”

I wonder if any devoted “X-Files” fans found it curious, during the forgettable year that was 2020, that when the government itself acknowledged in long-awaited declassified reports that they had, in fact, collected and documented evidence for decades of UFOs, the world generally took little notice or interest. Maybe it speaks to the incapacity of many of us to be truly impressed or surprised by anything anymore. It seems the truth was, in fact, out there, as the show once pitched weekly following the opening credits, but we moved on, treating the news no differently than if we had exited the theater, venturing from fiction writ large on a screen only to return to mundane reality. Maybe it’s just as well. It seems the official evidence presents nothing more than harmless, flashing objects evading pursuit and performing bizarre aeronautical feats before vanishing from sight. It’s possible to enjoy similar entertainment at the annual air show. Watching agents Mulder and Scully uncover the mysteries of the paranormal or investigate closely-guarded government secrets of alien existence in the space of an hour is, arguably, much more intriguing.

Many episodes diverged from this overarching storyline and had a bit of fun as stand-alones. While I didn’t spend time with the series from start to finish, one of my personal favorites is a season seven tale titled “Je Souhaite.” Long story short, the agents investigate a centuries-old jinniyah (i.e., genie) in the form of a woman who appears just as human as you or me. Hijinks ensue. A more memorable moment towards the end of the episode finds Agent Mulder chanced with a turn to offer three wishes of his own. Pausing a moment so as not to squander this rare opportunity, he opts for the high-road with his first wish, nobly and altruistically requesting peace on earth. The jinniyah routinely and disinterestedly complies. The wish is answered not with a bang but a whimper as an unsettling silence descends. The white noise of traffic and city bustle is eerily and suddenly absent. Peering out of the window, Mulder observes that all living things, with the exception of him and the jinniyah, have vanished from existence. Her vast years of experience with humankind have afforded her interpretive privilege, and the outcome of the wish clarifies her position: You can’t have both peace on earth and people, whose hearts are what they are. Pick one or pick the other.

If you were to ask me on any given day what I want most out of the forthcoming 24 hours, if I dug deep, I would likely respond with the word “peace” or some version of it. Peace in the schedule, peace at work, and, most of all, peace in relationships. I wasn’t bred well for conflict, but I wouldn’t dare attribute that to a failure on the part of my parents. I’m less critical of parents generally since I’ve been one.

In any event, I have been know to pursue harmony in tense encounters at times the same way an addict will cut corners to sate a craving and settle his mind and body. It’s a fault of mine, I know, but there you have it. I’ve managed to make it in life agreeably with most I encounter, though the character flaw has, ironically, been the cause of tension in a handful of moments in spite of efforts to avoid it. It seems some aren’t afraid of it but actually seek and create opportunities for conflict. My children, or at least one of them, are just such persons, though they are good kids overall. Nonetheless, I find God must have a sense of humor when I consider that he’s paired the three of them with me.

My perspective since having children has broadened significantly as to what is at one’s disposal about which to disagree passionately. Clothes, food, toys or other cherished possessions, you name it, they’ll argue over it. I once listened to a long, anguished, tear-stained altercation develop in the backseat of our van between two of ours over the rightful owner of a common — wait for it — rock. Yes, you read that right. They were both committed to dying on that hill, doubtless made of innumerable figurative stones equally as common. It was at that moment I knew I had now heard it all, and it remains the only time in my life I’ve felt the impulse to throw myself out of a moving vehicle.

Recent battles between our oldest and middle have assumed the form of a blame-game I would refer to as “Who Ate the Last of the _______?!” The winner is typically our oldest, who couldn’t care less about her alleged victories but is forced to play by our middle, who, of late, has taken to labeling items and carefully crafting and depositing notes in various locations around the kitchen and pantry to serve as reminders of what she is convinced is hers. She still hasn’t caught on that she makes no actual food purchases herself and has no rights or claims on what is or isn’t consumed, in spite of our own reminders, though I will admit our teenager, like many adolescents gifted with rapid metabolisms, has a unique talent for disposing of communal food as if it were a sworn duty. Nonetheless, we find notes like the one I discovered on the stovetop after rising early to get myself ready along with the other two (see below), who head to school at least an hour before her. It was the first note in my memory that made an attempt at polite acknowledgement of who owns what, merely, I should say, by virtue of the included words “please” and “thank you.” The rest was a blessing, of sorts, juxtaposed with a subtle, almost hidden warning, signified by a smiley-face and not-so-smiley face each deliberately placed next to two specific names in judgment. Apparently, one does not gracefully forgive and forget the previous month’s ice cream “theft.”

This is relatively mild by comparison. Early interactions overall at the beginning of our adoption journey were exhausting and challenging, to say the least. It’s hard becoming a family formed by adoption, especially if your kids have memories of life before you. Not too long ago, the movie “Instant Family” was released, and while my wife and I rarely take the time alone to go to the theater, we found space for this one. For those unaware, the story tells of a couple who choose to adopt three older siblings, ranging from preschooler to teenager. It fashions itself as a comedy, but the two of us viewed it almost as if someone had been reading our mail. Yes, much is exaggerated, but much also felt uncomfortably close to home. For a span, my 15-second elevator-pitch when someone asked what it was like to foster-to-adopt three children, I would refer them to this movie and tell them to catch up with me later if they had any further questions. While the conflicts depicted there are not as focused on what happens between the siblings, the tension and struggles are just as palpable. “We didn’t train for this!” Mark Wahlberg’s character exclaims during the chaotic dinner table scene. Such a sentiment I’ve felt time and again for the gamut of adoptive family-building, especially when navigating moments of sibling rivalry and conflict. Fortunately, my faith has provided a little transformative help.

If you’re a parent and a believer, you likely witnessed that the way you read Scripture altered significantly after kids came along. The stories in Exodus alone, for example, often read like stubborn, spoiled children who simply can’t quit complaining on a long road trip. They’re pleased to accept the benefits, but they’re also soft and ungrateful, unable to endure discomfort in any form. In the few spaces when Moses steps in to stay God’s hand on the disgruntled Israelites’ behalf, the parent in me is anticipating and hoping for a thorough smiting and wants to shove Moses aside to let Dad take care of it.

Take a step back to the book before it — the very first in Scripture, I might add — and after reading you might find one could make a convincing argument that the narrative of Genesis and, by extension, the purposes of God, were largely driven by sibling rivalry. Maybe you haven’t noticed, parent, but it may provide you a hint of hope to know that it all started right there at the very beginning, and it happened time and again. You’re far from alone in the human experience of bringing up bickering babies. What you deal with, what you referee day in and day out, has been going on since recorded history began, and, it seems, was the impetus for moving many things along.

Of the 1,189 chapters in Scripture, we’re barely getting started when we come across the story of Cain and Abel in the fourth. Like many conflicts, jealousy and the attention and approval of a parent (i.e., God) are at the center. The result of the bitterness, as we know, is the first murder. “Well,” I think to myself, “mine haven’t avenged themselves in such a violent manner; perhaps I have little to complain about, after all.” And I wouldn’t be wrong; but let’s keep reading.

Isaac may have been the promised child of Abraham and Sarah, but it’s easy to forget about Ishmael, his literal brother from another mother. If we believe Sarah and our translators, Ishmael, the older of the two, saw fit to “mock” the younger half-sibling on the day he was weaned. Sarah was none too pleased, and when mom ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy, as the saying goes. The first parent in known history to establish an anti-bullying campaign, she coldly issued Abraham orders to cast mother and son out of his household, to which he assented only after assurance from God that they would be taken care of. The Ishmaelites would later become the early tribes of the Muslim faith and would quietly live out their days to the present in relative peace and harmony with the rest of the world . . . except that they haven’t. It’s as if the youthful fraternal animosity that served as cause to be cast out would thereafter characterize a people and faith in their relations with their cultural brothers and neighbors.

Then we meet Jacob and Esau. Now, this is a classic rivalry for the ages. These twins exited their mother’s womb veritably as discord defined, though, to be fair, Jacob duly bore much of the credit for that, especially throughout their early relational history. For those of us who blame our lack or misapplication of nurture as parents for the negative traits our kids exhibit, here is an example of nature trumping nurture. Jacob was granted the name “supplanter” or “deceiver” as soon as the curtain rolled up by virtue of the odd obstetric fact that he “grasped the heel” of his brother on the way out, as if to presage his methods would hereafter involve the unwilling and forced assistance of others in order to get his way. We know the story of Jacob stealing both his brother’s birthright and later “pulling the wool” over his own father’s eyes to swipe his brother’s blessing. This guy later had the gall to wrestle with God himself and stubbornly refuse to let go after they encountered a stalemate until he got what he wanted. I wonder that clinicians today might diagnose that as a penultimate case of oppositional defiant disorder, which, nonetheless, was the spark that resulted in the birth of Israel itself.

Then there’s Leah and Rachel, lest we forget it’s not only about the boys. Prior to his wrestling match, Jacob fled the wrath of his brother, decided to settle down, and was forced to toil a number of years for these two sister wives as a result of duplicitous tables turned upon him for a change. And in case we needed a demonstration as to why polygamy is a terrible idea, here we’re treated to a vigorous birthing competition between the sisters. When they ran out of steam, so to speak, they threw other women in their charge at him, and this all for the sake of “winning.” Throughout this narrative, Jacob/Israel becomes less the progenitor of a nation and more of a prop for the sisters’ bitter rivalry. Such a twisted tale nevertheless produced the nation’s twelve tribes, which would serve as the basis for Israel’s multi-faceted identity throughout the rest of its history.

Finally, we have Joseph and his brothers, whose story is given the greater share of space in Genesis. Our children accuse us of having favorites, though the truth, or at least what I tell myself, is that we relate to them differently based on their personalities. These siblings, however, knew full well the little runt was dad’s favorite. Consumed but united by their jealousy and incense at his arrogant dreams, they went so far as to throw him down a well and then sell him into slavery to strangers, though their original plan involved ending him once and for all. Unbeknownst to dad, they brought back false evidence of an animal attack and let him believe the lie that cruel nature had claimed his life.

One of my cherished observations about Scripture is that it doesn’t whitewash human shortcomings and failures. It’s ugly, unpleasant, and heartbreaking, and in my opinion, serves as strong and persuasive testimony that it’s telling the truth. It doesn’t over-employ the best qualities of its characters to convince you. To the contrary, we see the best and and the worst together, much like our own lives, and we find we can relate. My kids and yours may not have committed quite so atrocious acts against one another, but we’ve personally witnessed the same feelings motivating them to do whatever it is they do to or for each other.

I want my kids to do well, but I more often pray that they choose to be kind. If such things start at home, frankly, it’s difficult to tell where we might be in the process. Just last night there were bitter, vicious words exchanged over simple drinks spills, whereas days before they were happily sharing their devices because they “love each other.” I’ll happily take the latter, but more often than I’d like, I see the former. On the other hand, they haven’t stooped to murder in the first, mocked each other to the point of forced exile from the home, fled the house in fear because of deception, birthed a bunch of babies to earn a man’s favor, or conspired to sell one of the others off to strangers but tell us and God that he/she died. So, I guess we’ve dodged a bullet. So far.

We still worry, though, each time we see less than what we hope for in their characters. But here’s the beautiful thing about this first book and the reason Joseph’s story was deliberately reserved for the end, I think. After all that — and I don’t mean his story alone — after all that was endured in almost 50 chapters prior, after every instance of siblings threatening not only each other but the plans of God himself and, I would argue, their parents’ deepest hopes for them, we hear Joseph’s refreshing words: “. . . you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.”

“The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing,” said Marcus Aurelius. I don’t know if the esteemed Roman emperor was familiar with the story of Esau’s brother, but, perhaps, despite all his character flaws, Jacob was unwittingly onto something as he stubbornly struggled and strained against God himself that evening on his way to reconcile with his twin. If so, maybe I shouldn’t fret too much about the backseat bickering, as tame or terrible as it might be. God is aware of what he’s doing with my kids, even if I don’t. I’ll still strive to encourage peace between them in our modest corner of the earth, but if Genesis has anything to teach us, it’s that even the the most vengeful of sibling rivalries can’t thwart the purposes of God. He’s got it in hand; there’s no need for a genie with a handful of wishes.

Unqualified

In less than a year’s time, my wife and I will celebrate 10 years of marriage. On our bedroom wall is a single, wide frame waiting to accept several small photographs of the two of us in five-year increments, arbitrarily up to year 25. My brother and sister preceded me in wedlock and remain happily married to their partners, each for 14 and 20 years, respectively. My parents are fast approaching their 48th anniversary, and I expect they will make it much further than that. Before “death do us part” ended their partnership, my paternal grandparents were wed for a slow and steady 60 years. My maternal grandparents, whom I have long lovingly referred to as “Meme and Papaw,” are still together and have been for a staggering 74 years.

I share none of this as a matter of pride. Rather, I say it to point out that the marital bonds made and rigorously maintained in my immediate family, along with the fact that I consequently have been spared the shock and heartache that formal separation can cause for all those involved, may explain, at least in part, why I feel such sensitivity upon learning of the divorce of friends, family, or even the most remote of acquaintances. It always breaks my heart. Each time I hear of it — and it happens more often now — the upset prompts me to take a closer look at my own marriage while wondering desperately how others’ could have ended, if for no other reason than to understand how to protect my own.

It’s an oft-repeated, banal statistic: half of all marriages in America end in divorce. I have heard more than once from the pulpit that this percentage “changest not” for Christian churchgoers, a fact perhaps surprising given that the faith is among the strongest advocates for the institution. There are plenty of risks in life I wouldn’t take given odds no better than those offered by the toss of a coin; but it would seem from the stats that’s the best deal any of us who venture into marriage will get. We enter into it confident and assured that love will see us through. But that’s not enough. From what I understand and have observed, what most commonly occurs for the unlucky in love is that time erodes mere romantic feelings, differences or offenses are left unresolved or unforgiven and consequently birth resentment, and resentment breeds contempt, until, left to fester, there is little left to salvage of the relationship.

Perhaps this is an oversimplification. Regardless, none of this happens in the space of an evening. Realizing the best or worst of anything in our lives is a patient process, and I have found in my 9 years that when I feel resentment creeping in, humility is the only cure. I am not a perfect man. If I follow the counsel of pride, I shouldn’t be surprised if loneliness accompanies my need to be right. So, I buy the bouquet and apologize.

I don’t intend that my thoughts alienate those who have known the pain of divorce, and I understand that the details surrounding such issues can be very complicated and may differ from one person to the next. We all need grace, myself included. But if you’re a believer, I haven’t come across any interpretive tools that allow one to sidestep the meaning of the simple, plainspoken words of God in the final book of the Old Testament: “I hate divorce.”

I have once felt the temptation to walk away. While it may not hold a candle to the experiences or challenges others have had, and though it wasn’t borne of resentment, it felt as real and compelling as anything else I’ve experienced.

Not terribly long after our oldest and youngest were placed in our home for the six-month long period before adoption could be pursued, we found ourselves one evening dealing with an irritable toddler who couldn’t get himself to sleep. We had endured the patient and exhausting process of training, paperwork, and preparation for two years and exchanged it for the draining realities of parenting in such moments as this. Most nights after placement were a challenge lulling him to sleep and keeping him in slumber, but this evening was different. As the night progressed, my wife and I found ourselves taking turns sitting up with him, occasionally drifting off only to wake soon again in a state of rapid and labored breathing and coughing. While he himself did not seem to be alarmed about his efforts, in hindsight, we should have had the sense to take him to the ER right then. We second-guessed ourselves, however, and tried not to overreact to whatever this was. By the time the sun began to rise, we could see nothing was improving, and so we made the decision to seek help. So, I got him and myself ready, and we headed to the hospital.

Arriving, we checked in, and we were not left to wait interminably after I shared the details and medical staff were able to see for themselves how he struggled to breathe. They soon found him a space and a bed and began the process of assessing him. Needles and such were soon to follow, much to his displeasure, as they found his oxygen levels much lower than normal. This would be the first of future medical visits that would ultimately acclimate him to medical treatment and form him into a better patient than he was at this moment.

Without the resources or expertise to treat him, it was decided that he should be transported to Texas Children’s Hospital downtown via ambulance. Once he was prepped, they rolled him into the back as I sat alongside him for the journey. After arriving, we would stay for four days and three long nights as they endeavored to stabilize him before officially diagnosing it as asthma and releasing him back into our care to head home.

So the routine business of day-to-day adoptive parenting began again, now with the added task of daily pharmaceutically-treated asthma prevention. We pressed on toward the goal of adoption, though I admit the adjustment from no kids to two kids had begun to feel extreme. I had more than one moment of anger or frustration at the changes and occasionally expressed this in such a way that surprised even me. I gained a greater appreciation for the fact that most of us are eased into parenting with a single baby; the needs are very basic, they don’t yet have much of a will of their own, and they are fragile in every way. Yes, the change is still a change, and one still loses some sleep and “me time,” but jump-starting from zero to multiple “not-babies” from traumatic backgrounds is not a natural life transition. The stress of such a change can compound if you don’t appreciate the adjustment required. And I didn’t fully appreciate how daily life would change.

A month later, the coughing began again late one afternoon, persistent and uninterrupted. Fearing another long night, we decided to forego the inevitable and brought him again to the local hospital. And once again, after evaluating him, they chose to carry him downtown via ambulance to TCH.

After he and I arrived into the evening, we were checked in and eventually placed in an ER room, where we were left to wait. My wife and our oldest soon joined us for what would end up a long night of patient observation. In the end, it was merely a cough, nothing more, and he was administered a steroid and breathing treatment. This would be one of our first moments in which a physician would inform us that his cough was not necessarily concerning; moreover, nothing but a steroid would be prescribed for it, due in part to the fact that physicians generally do not recommend cough medicines at his age — a frustrating reality for parents who simply want their child to sleep.

Early into the morning, exhausted, we were released from what felt like a waste of a visit, though assured our concerns were nothing serious. We made our way back to the van and headed home in the dark, the sun not long in rising. Though sleep was foremost on all of our minds, my wife and I knew relatively little time would be permitted for that. Our life now revolved around a couple of kids, and the toddler among them would be up very soon after the sun, prepared to wake the rest of us up with his needs and treat us as well you can expect of a sleep-deprived two-year-old.

This trip to the ER, not the first but the third for me with him (there was also, by the way, an unfortunate incident in which he stuck his finger into the moving, rolling track of the garage door as it opened) left me spent in every way. Our journey of parenthood had only just begun, and all of the training that sought to prepare us for moments such as this meant nothing to me now. Yes, of course, our life would change, it wouldn’t be easy, etc.; I’d heard all that. But here and now, I only felt complete and utter exhaustion. I also felt trapped with this feeling, realizing perhaps for the first time that I had made a commitment to this and all it entailed, that I couldn’t necessarily expect relief even when my head hit the pillow. I’d signed up for a marathon that would last not a few hours but many long years, and the pop of the starter pistol still echoed in the air. The entire course stretched endlessly before us.

As the weary morning began, I called a friend to take me to the local ER to pick up the car, where I’d left it before we were escorted downtown in the ambulance the previous evening. I then drove to the pharmacy for the prescription. Having collected it, I returned to the car, sat in the driver’s seat, and paused.

Staring aimlessly ahead, it occurred to me in my spent state — emotionally, physically, mentally, and even spiritually — that I wasn’t bound to this course. I still had a choice. I was alone in a vehicle that could take me almost anywhere I wanted to go. And what I wanted right now was to be anywhere but here, anywhere but home. I loved my wife very much, but I didn’t want the rest of it at this moment, not anymore. My new identity, the changes in how I spent my time, the challenges of parenting kids from trauma — it all was received and heard one way but experienced in an entirely different way. You don’t fully grasp what you’re entering until you step through the door.

A left turn out of the parking lot took me away from here. A right turn brought me home.

Turn left. Turn left and find an escape. Yes, you would leave your wife behind, but think how pleasant it would be simply to sleep and wake on your own time, not to be responsible for anyone but yourself, to let others more qualified than you take on the task of raising kids such as these. You’re clearly not cut out for this, so feel no guilt about walking away. Turn left. Doesn’t matter where, just go.

I don’t know how long I sat still and silent in the car. The weight of what I was actually considering slowed time to a laborious crawl. Everything in me wanted to abandon this choice I had made to be a father to kids I didn’t father, kids with whom I was barely acquainted, who looked nothing like me. I was tired, I was unqualified, and I wanted out.

At some point, I looked right. To return home, I had to find faith that I wouldn’t always feel this way, that things would be different, better, given time, that God was behind this endeavor. I wanted to believe it. But I didn’t feel it.

I picked up the phone and texted my wife. “We need to talk.”

Starting the car, I paused once more.

I turned right.

Our conversation would be one of the first and only times I’ve shed tears in front of my wife. While there would be other moments of tension due to the changes the adoptive process had wrought, in this one, I expressed how much harder this was than I expected and shared my doubts as to whether or not I could continue. In her own patient way, my wife listened, expressed understanding, and tried to counsel taking it a day at a time. If I learned one thing about her character through the process, it was that she was all-in, that she embraces challenges, even when the doubts creep in, and is more likely to look for solutions, any solutions, that would foster success. This should have been a strong indication to me that she was equally committed to us, to our marriage, if and when the road would be rough.

That was over five years ago. I hope I’m not so naive as to believe that had I turned left, our marriage would have instantly fallen apart. But it most certainly would have been the first step, possibly of many, in the wrong direction.

Parenting has the potential to be a strain on any marriage. Adoptive parenting, all the more. Little did we know at the time that in less than a year, we would take in their sister, who had the misfortune of enduring the instability of four primary caregivers before she ever arrived with us at the tender age of 7. She would also unwittingly provide us with a raw and jarring education on what it actually means to parent a child from trauma. The stress of it would test us many times, and sometimes it still does.

“It’s so great what you guys are doing,” we occasionally hear, referring to adoption. We don’t feel like heroes at all, simply because we know ourselves, and have a hard time responding to the compliment. It’s the humble confession that often follows, however, for which I have a ready response but choose to stifle. “I could never do that,” they say. “That’s interesting,” I imagine replying. “I feel that way almost everyday.”

Adoptive parenting doesn’t require perfection as a qualification, I’ve learned. I likewise shouldn’t expect it of other relationships, marriage included. If not for the grace of God, we would wait indefinitely to feel qualified to do anything of worth.

“If anything is worth doing, it is worth doing badly,” wrote G.K. Chesterton. While his words testified specifically in his time to a debate over amateurism versus professionalism, I take a little interpretive liberty and choose to hear it as a challenge simply to try, regardless of personal shortcomings or the potential for mistakes likely to be made. Some things in life merely ask us to press forward, qualified or not.

Just as with parenting, I’ve made my share of errors in my marriage. I can’t see the road ahead, but I fully hope and pray that my wife and I will eventually have a photo to insert in the 25 year spot of the picture frame, and then some. The faith I had that day that compelled me to return home felt far more minuscule than the storied mustard seed. If so, then there is something both true and effective in those words after all. Armed hereafter with nothing more than a sliver of faith, I need only believe, and keep turning right.