An Open Door

“God doesn’t ever get the address wrong. He put you where you are for a reason.”

Rosaria Butterfield

February 7th marked the one year anniversary of the finalization of our adoptions. One year. To think that the wild ride that brought us to that day is actually a year behind us now! I think most people assumed that we would be happy to get off the crazy-train. Truth be told, even I thought that. But the reality was, we were conflicted. Ok, ok… it was mostly me. We didn’t know where our family was headed next and that brought some confusion and very differing points of view to the table.

At the time our adoptions finalized last year, we were still registered foster parents with an active license. We weren’t sure what our next step should be yet, but knew we needed some time to pray, talk, and get on the same page as a couple and as a family before making any decisions, so we asked for a reprieve. Basically, the agency put a “hold” on our file and would not call us to accept a new placement until we stated we were ready.

We took our time, settled into a new routine and enjoyed the freedom of being able to live life with our kids and make our own decisions. We had an opportunity to pursue another placement during the summer last year, and were considering it, but as things unfolded, the agency decided not to proceed with their original plans. There were many frank and earnest conversations had as a family after that and after much prayer, we made the decision not to renew our foster license when it came up for renewal. In December, we officially closed our file.

That decision, while the right one for our family and what we felt God was impressing on us in this season, still left me feeling lost. We started down the road to become foster parents in 2017 and we were now just shy of what would have been our 5 year anniversary of being licensed. I went in bright-eyed, eager, and naive and came out somewhat jaded, damaged, and with my eyes open to a world of pain and brokenness that I had only glimpsed at before starting this journey. Looking back – I can say this now – there were so many times where I wanted to give up. There really aren’t enough words to describe the experience of being a foster parent that cares. Of wading through someone else’s pain and trauma with them, while simultaneously carrying your own struggles. Of experiencing secondary trauma. Of holding space for God’s love to shine through you when you feel empty and raging at a world that is twisted and broken and unfair. Of just wanting to forget what you’ve seen, what you’ve learned, and go back to your life before entering the war zone that is child welfare.

It was so hard. It was isolating and heartbreaking. There were times where I wondered if the pain was worth it. Wondered if the trauma I had introduced to my biological children was fair to them. Wondered if it was all just a big mistake. There were moments when it felt like God was silent. Felt like we were a remote island, especially when COVID hit. We were drowning in a sea of big emotions and fallout with all of our boys, our own anger and grief, and the expectations of the agency and birth families all at the same time.

And yet, when I dug deep, and really listened I could hear God whispering. Telling me He was close. Encouraging, strengthening, reminding me to hang on to Him and stop trying to be superwoman or fix things that were out of my control. Reminding me that this was Kingdom work – it requires that we give our all, that we die to ourselves, that we follow His voice, and that the fight to do what’s right exacts blood, sweat, and tears. That in the end, the difficulties and the scars are all worth it. Yes, those few years were long and difficult, but I have grown so much through them, and I realized that in leaving that way of life and taking next steps, meant I had no clue as to where we were going. I felt like we were walking away from something powerful, from doing something meaningful, and the hole it left was gaping.

At first I thought maybe it was simply an adjustment period I needed to go through. I just need to adjust to “normal” civilian life. But, after a while I realized it was more than that. I was feeling restless. Like something was missing. And then there was the guilt. The feeling that we had “failed” as foster parents because we stopped once our boys were adopted. I felt uncomfortable telling my foster friends that we were considering not “re-entering the ring”, even though they were understanding and supportive. Yes, I have a lot on my plate in raising and homeschooling 4 boys, but doesn’t everybody these days? I mean, there are more children who need stable, loving homes, more struggling families that need support, so how could we walk away from that when the need is so great? If I wasn’t supposed to fill the gap as a foster parent anymore, what was I supposed to do? What were we, as a family supposed to do? I wrestled with these thoughts from the moment our adoptions were final until only a few weeks ago. And then a book, that I didn’t even remember putting on hold, came in at the library – The Gospel Comes With a House Key: Practicing Radically Ordinary Hospitality in a Post-Christian World by Rosaria Butterfield.

I picked up this book with curiosity (mainly because it sounded somewhat interesting and, frankly, I couldn’t remember where I heard about it or who had recommended it), but after the first few pages, I couldn’t put it down (and I encourage you to read it)! It was as though the words were written as a message directly to me. In this book, the author talks about what radical hospitality looks like and how the home of the Christ-follower is meant to be a welcoming place of healing and hope for communities, rather than the carefully guarded castles that they often become.

“Radically ordinary hospitality means this: God promises to put the lonely in families (Ps. 68:6), and he intends to use your house as living proof”.

Rosaria Butterfield – The Gospel comes with a house key

The author had put into words what the essence of fostering and adoption is. Radical hospitality. Not the kind that means a perfectly clean house, or gourmet meal, where you bid your guests good-bye after a nice visit (though there is a place for that), but the kind that welcomes you in – all of you, with all your baggage – for as long as you need to be there. Embracing you, meeting your needs, and when it’s necessary, even crawling into the trenches to fight your demons with you.

Just before our foster file was closed, both my husband and I started feeling a “God nudge”. We felt that we were supposed to start opening our home to connect with others more. To allow our home to be a space where people gather and community is built. But, that idea forming in our hearts felt a little overwhelming – especially since one of us is an introvert and the other (though it might be hard to tell sometimes) is an extroverted introvert, who recharges in quiet, alone time. Fast forward a few months and suddenly, reading this book, the nudge made sense. The guilt and the uncertainty, the second-guessing our next steps, fell away, and I discovered that we hadn’t left anything behind. We’ve only moved on to a new chapter of hospitality.

Hospitality. This word used to send my anxiety racing. When I would read Scripture and come across a passage about the “gift of hospitality” I used to think “That is definitely NOT my gift. It stresses me out too much.” Not that I didn’t want to have people over or to connect – if COVID taught us anything it’s how easy it is to isolate and how much we actually need community – but the preparation that had to go into having people come into my home, the frantic cleaning spree, the stress over what to serve if we were having a meal, and the weight I felt to be a “good” hostess, were almost paralyzing sometimes. Now, my perspective has completely changed.

I think our concept of hospitality in Western culture is askew. Hospitality isn’t about perfection, how clean our house is, what food we serve, or what we have to offer in terms of creature comforts, but rather about how people are made to feel when they enter our homes. It’s about taking down barriers and removing pretense – being real, because that’s how true community is built. If people feel loved, welcomed, and accepted, when they come into our homes, then that is what they will remember. Not the dishes stacked on the counter, or the cheerios still under the kitchen table, and the baskets of laundry piled in the corner of the living room. Radical hospitality invites people to join you in doing life together, not putting on a production. And often that’s messy, and it’s stretching, but it’s worth it.

When we bought this house, we always said it had great space for entertaining. But then we didn’t entertain very often. I used to worry that we lived too far away from most of our friends and church community. We felt disconnected and considered moving, yet something has always held us back. But, as we have begun to build more relationships in our neighbourhood, make new friends in different places, and purposefully invite people in, I realize that our address is no mistake – God has us exactly where He wants us.

“We can’t obey until we face the facts: the gospel comes in exchange for the life we once loved. But when we die to ourselves, we find the liberty to obey.”

rosaria butterfield

One of the definitions of hospitable is readily receptive: OPEN. And that is what we need to be – readily receptive and open to the Spirit’s leading; readily receptive and open to receiving the people God places in our life. Opening our home to those that need it. Because we need that too. Following Christ and leaving the life we knew behind to be obedient is what led us to foster and then adopt. And that is what has lead us into this new chapter of our lives. I can’t wait to see where He takes us.