Humility

I’ve had a few false starts lately. Not of the run-of-the-mill, start-something-that-evolves-in-unforeseen-ways variety, but things I felt genuinely called to that ran up against brick walls, plural. My coaching business failed to launch and fizzled out. My first foray into teaching was an unmitigated disaster. I’m doubting my vocation and my place in the community into which I know, nevertheless, God led me. The one thing that has appeared on the horizon to direct my vision and energies toward is terrifying and, possibly, a chimera.

They haven’t been entirely without fruit, particularly with teaching. I’ve walked back a bit, having realized, with the benefit and perspective of more experience, that the long-term sub position I embarked on after three brief hours in a classroom was exceptional on the no-way-but-up end of the spectrum (but not, apparently, the absolute bottom). I’ve scrambled at least partway up the learning curve with only a few meltdowns and mangled lesson plans. I’ve learned about the boundaries I want to have with my future kids and been surprised by some of them (the conviction to parent in the classroom has become an imperative).

But they have raised a pair of significant discernment questions. For something already begun: When do I dig my considerable will into the resources of heaven and when is it time to hoist the white flag?

I’ve answered that, in part, by facing down the reality I am not the right person for every child, no matter my intentions, desire, or call: in short, with humility. This is not a bad outcome. (Even so, God has looked much more kindly in His interpretation of these months than I, asking me point-blank, “Is it really fair to call them false starts?” and, because that long-term sub position ended organically and early, suggesting that perhaps He knows my limits better than I do. It does feel suspiciously as though He is getting me right where He wants me.)

***

The answer to the second question is hazier. For something not yet started: How does one know when to pull the trigger? The chimera prowling my horizon—becoming a foster parent—is exciting, but daunting. What if it, too, is a false start? Throwing in the towel when only impacts my life is one thing. (The myth I operate in a vacuum, on some level, persists. But never mind that). What about when it involves other hearts, in situations that promise to push me to rely on God totally? What is the balance of wise caution and refusing fear a seat at the table? It’s a fine line.

I’ve circled back around to humility, since neither preparing nor deciding is all my doing.

***

Some sage concisely defined humility as “a proper understanding of who God is and who I am.” God is consummately good and concerned with the plight of the vulnerable. He has a habit of working through weak, bruised, surrendered hearts. I’ve long desired to foster, and I know desire is from God, but there are many worthy ways to spend a life. This way is too weighty a thing to move into on desire alone; this an undertaking upheld by the Father and no one else. Both a calling and a consolation is required, and consolation can be encouraged but not manufactured.

I’ve done everything I know to do, taking stock of who I am, wrapping my mind and heart and spirit around what I would be choosing if I chose fostering (aware that I will never really know beforehand), and why.

I had to reconcile wanting to move on it for the wrong reasons (merely wanting to be a mom) and holding back for the wrong reasons (unadulterated terror; disappointment and defied expectations of the I-didn’t-think-it-would-look-like-this ilk). No less important, I had to acknowledge wanting to move on it for the right reasons (the depth of desire to counter the works of the evil one toward children, even one child) and holding back for the right reasons (being in a major life change myself and working through yet more of my own crap). I had to take stock—honestly, courageously—of my self, selfishness, and the inevitably imperfect purity of my motives (something I’ve always struggled with), so Jesus could get me to the point of setting self aside.

The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me;
Your loving kindness, O Lord, endures forever—
Do not abandon the works of Your own hands.

Psalm 138:8

The rest has been waiting: waiting on Jesus to get my heart in the right place—to raise both the fear of not being enough (surprise! I am not. And that’s okay.) and the daring hope that He may have made me for such a precious calling—to Jesus until He configures it into a container big enough, strong enough, hold a child. It is His work. He is accomplishing that which concerns me. He has me at the end of myself, at the end of my fears and excuses and desires and false pride—now, I am certain, where He wants me.

***

In the midst of this, the foster family I help serve is going through it, making heart-breaking decisions they certainly didn’t think they would have to make when they signed the adoption papers.

In the midst of this, I’ve seen the phrase “something new” four times [edit: six!].

I have to wonder: Is this the new thing that is happening? Or is there something else I should be doing (including, but not limited to, continuing to wait?)? I don’t know. For now, I have to resist the urge to tie a neat bow on a post that is fundamentally about not having one freakin’ clue, about waiting, about free-falling. I come to alignment with God: I can see how the false starts of these months equipped me, perhaps exactly, for this. There is evidence of good, hopeful things waiting in the frayed, dark wings, even hovering over the waters. God still speaks. He is always at work, causing seed to grow:

In the midst of this, a dear friend is discerning a move to a state nearby, a desire not previously on my radar. I have to wonder: What else isn’t on my radar? What else is God leaving room for? What other spectacular good is a breath away, a dial tweaked from fear to excitement? When would the light flash to green?

The consolation came suddenly, as it does, on a Thursday.