Last night it snowed a few inches in my part of the world. It’s always exciting because winter does not equal snow here.
Sledding and snow cream. Blanket bundles. Tears from too-cold fingers and toes.
As I cleaned the kitchen after dinner Shannon asked me if I was okay. I whispered, Yes, you do know we have an adopted fourth daughter?
I know, he says.
And I am okay. Just making my way to the end of a full day and feeling the tired kicking in.
Husband goes off to play with Leah and I finish sweeping up crumbs and loading the dishwasher. I think about our little friend. The one who has come to feel like part of our family.
And I think about how I was the “adopted” extra in another family.
I think about shooting an email or a text message to say what has been said before. Many times now said as an adult– I see what she did for me. What they did.
Instead I sit here in this messy end-of-day and type out my thankful heart.
See, some people are willing to be interrupted.
To live an interrupted life.
When I was in the fourth grade my parents separated. When my brother and I spent our Sundays with our dad we most often landed at the Faison home.
Jimmy and Connie had known my dad for many, many years. I believe Jimmy and my dad met in second grade. So there was history.
History doesn’t always mean opening your home to a life-long friend and his two children every Sunday.
But it did this time.
I couldn’t fully appreciate (if at all) the significance as a child.
Every Sunday (unless we all went out) Connie prepared a meal for not just her family of four, but another family of three.
She fed all seven of us over and over for years. Shared her space. Her time.
And I don’t remember ever feeling like an extra.
To this day when I see them I feel a kind of warmth inside. A sense of safe belonging.
They poured into me in so many seemingly mundane ways that helped to build me.
Not because of anything bigger, or better, than opening their home and hearts and living interrupted by me.
Now I’m grown and inspired.
Because even when three kids seems like more than enough I push myself to keep the door open.
To my house. And even my heart.
I think about what they did for me.
A few weeks ago our little friend invited Jesus into her heart while at church with us.
How delightful and wonderful and amazing.
And I know this thing for sure as I sweep and load tonight..
Their names are in the history of this little girl’s story. She might never know but I do.
Because they taught me.
The beauty of interrupted living.