Make Room

Over the summer our church had the privilege of hosting the Amani Children’s Choir, a beautiful collection of gifted young boys and girls hailing from Uganda. On a summer morning in June they blessed our little congregation with their worshipful music and dance. They wore brightly colored fabrics and rhythmically tapped on drums as their feet moved in unison across the stage. During their final song, one of the girls stepped from the stage, walked down the aisle and knelt beside me where I sat. I repositioned myself in my chair, unsure of what was happening.

In a clear, confident voice, she said “Hello, my name is Miracle. I want to know how I can pray for you.”

I was taken aback. I looked at her face, skin smooth as silk and rich as my morning coffee, eyes brimming with anticipation. I said the first thing that came to mind; I asked her to pray for my children, that they would walk with Jesus all the days of their life. With bowed heads and hands embracing, I listened as Miracle prayed over my family. She prayed with a faith and fervor I so often lacked. I was overwhelmed with the generosity of prayer this twelve-year-old foreigner showed to me, a stranger. By the time she said “Amen,” my arms were covered with goosebumps.

Later that day my husband told me the Amani Children’s Choir was looking for families to host the children during their time in our city. Over dinner that night we all agreed it could be fun to have a couple of kids added to our mix, but our summer calendar was filling up fast. We had a vacation coming up, our children had commitments to camps, and there were about a dozen other obligations we needed to consider. I just wasn’t sure we could make room. We put off the decision, agreeing to discuss it again later and “see what we can do.” We went on with our summer.

A month later my husband came home from work and reminded me we never decided when (not “if”) we were going to host children from the choir. I hemmed and hawed. I’d forgotten all about it honestly. I didn’t realize the choir was still in town even. I knew we’d said it could be fun to host, but I was having second thoughts. The children seemed lovely during their performance, but those goosebumps I’d felt had long disappeared. The notion of taking in strangers seemed a bit… uncomfortable. I couldn’t begin to imagine the cultural divides. We knew nothing of Uganda. My husband couldn’t tell me what age or gender the children would be, what they ate or what their daily routine would be. How would they get along with our two children? There were so many unknown factors. We would need to adapt our schedule, our routine, everything really, to accommodate our house guests. I reluctantly looked at our calendar. “I supposed we could fit them in for a few days next week,” I sighed. “Prov is volunteering, Justice has camp and we leave for Yosemite shortly after, but…” I silently hoped we would drop the whole thing, but Zach picked up the phone and made the call: “We’d love to host two children next week!” A knot slowly took form in the pit of my stomach. I guess I would need to make room.

Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I have the gift of hospitality. I genuinely enjoy gathering people in my home for a meal, a party, a ministry meeting or a movie night. I’ve been known to host friends and family for weekend visits without batting an eye. So why was the notion of hosting two talented Ugandan children making my stomach nauseous? Perhaps it was because they were strangers, unknown to me or my family. Maybe it was because they were foreign, from an area of the world I could only dream about. Or it could be because they weren’t just coming for a meal, a brief encounter that would soon end in relief should things get awkward, but they were staying for four days. They would be here when I rose in the morning and when I went to bed at night. Apparently I didn’t mind being hospitable when it came easy. It felt a lot tougher when it required sacrifice.

I fussed and fretted in the days leading up to their arrival. I worried over what food to serve, wondered if they would need me to do their laundry or, heaven help me, their hair. I considered what circumstances these children were coming from in their home country and felt suddenly self-conscious. Would we seem entitled? Privileged? Un-Christian? The knot in my stomach grew.

On a Wednesday afternoon they crossed the threshold of our home, suitcases in tow. Imagine my surprise when Miracle, the beautiful young girl who had fervently prayed for my family, stood there in my kitchen. I’ve never believed in coincidences, only the God-ordained. “Okay, You have my attention,” I whispered to the Man Upstairs. Alongside Miracle was another girl, equally beautiful, named Miriam. Both were twelve years old, a year younger than my daughter and two years older than my son… a perfect fit.

It was a bit strange, that first meal together. We were all unsure of each other. We pushed through the introductions and cursory questions but I started to feel like we were interviewing them so I went quiet. I’d ask too many questions already, I felt. Did I sound naive? The whole mood was stiff, inflexible, like wearing a new pair of shoes for the first time. Four days was starting to feel like an awfully long time. I shifted restlessly in my chair and silently sent up a prayer, “Oh Lord this is hard. Help it not to feel so hard!”

After dinner that first night, Miracle and Miriam joined our daughter and her friends at the local water park. They braved waterslides and wave pools for the first time. Apparently they were thrill seekers They got home late but exhilarated. They rattled away about the different slides they tried and I was grateful the conversational ice had broken on its own. By the time everyone showered and put on pajamas it was even later, but before we could shuttle everyone off to bed, the girls came out to the family room with Bibles in hand and said confidently, “We’d like to do our nightly devotionals with your family.”

Oh. Um. Well, sure, I guess that would be okay. It was so late and we were ready for bed, but I mean, we’re a pastor’s family so we probably should have thought of it first, right? We nodded in compliance and gathered our sleepy selves onto the couch. It suddenly dawned on me, did they expect us to lead? I hadn’t prepared anything. Maybe they assumed, being leaders in our church, a devotional would be a no-brainer for us. Guilt flushed through my cheeks in warm waves. Miracle, sensing my apprehension, smiled and said,

“We will lead you in a song, and then I will read a passage from the Scriptures so we can discuss what we think God is telling us and how we can apply it to our lives.”

“Oh, well sure, since you have already have something in mind,” I said, trying not to let my relief show.

I relaxed my shoulders and leaned back as Miriam and Miracle’s voices harmonized, filling our living room with worship. After the song, Miracle walked us through Scripture with the confidence and maturity of a seasoned Bible study leader. Our family came to look forward to those evening devotionals. Our son especially loved the singing; he was even brought to tears on one occasion. I was so impressed by the insight the girls brought to the table each night. They read God’s Word through a lens I didn’t possess.

All week long the girls were infallibly polite. They stood up to hug us whenever we left the house and greeted us the same way the minute we returned. They graciously cleared the dishes after each meal, helped prepare food, and kept their bedroom neat as a pin. Here I’d been worried about the added mess of two additional kids and it turned out my home was actually cleaner since they arrived. As it turned out, Miracle and Miriam were more than willing to flex and adapt to our family’s schedule, slipping seamlessly into our routine without question. I’d had much worry, so much resistance to being inconvenienced. What a waste it all was. God called me outside my comfort zone only to carry me once I got there. He’s done that before you know, blessed me immeasurably when I agreed to shoulder a burden for His sake. The load sometimes feels heavy but He soon exchanges it for a lightening of my spirit. I took so much joy in watching these beautiful girls infiltrate our family life. From that very first night, worshipping together in our pajamas, hair soaked wet from the water park, nothing about it felt hard, nothing at all.

Did I have two extra mouths to feed? Yes. Did my groove get thrown off entirely for the duration of their stay? Also yes. But oh was our family was better for it? Infinitely. Every afternoon was spent at the pool or the park, playing board games around our table and turning Bible pages. Our globe was dusted off and our knowledge of life on the other side of the world grew by leaps and bounds. Miriam and Miracle quickly stretched the soles of their new houseguest shoes and filled our four walls with conversation, laughter and surprisingly, razor sharp wit. Though our cultures were indeed different, they did anything but divide us. Our world is big but it is held by the same two hands.

Our daughter assisted Miracle and Miriam with their schoolwork, taught them how to draw animals from their native Uganda, and introduced them to new pizza toppings. Our son rushed home to greet them each day with a hug and a silly story to tell. I had needlessly worried my kids would struggle under my divided attention with the girls encroaching on our space, but Providence and Justice easily made room for their two new friends. Those four days that once stretched agonizingly ahead of me, passed by in a blink.

During our last morning together the knot in my stomach returned, but this time because I couldn’t bear to see them leave. Miriam and Miracle’s presence by then felt so natural. I looked forward to their hugs each day. I felt a maternal pull to them, knowing that somewhere in Uganda they had mothers who were praying they would be loved on and cared for by their American hosts. These precious girls, for a brief time, became my daughters too, though only in age. They were the epitome of gratitude and grace, teaching me far more than I ever could have hoped to teach them. None of us could imagine them staying anywhere but here. What if their next host family wasn’t as fun, or what if they didn’t have kids their age like we did? Would the girls be okay? I regretted being so stingy with our time. Surely we could have hosted them a few days longer, had I only been more open to the idea.

We learned that Miracle and Miriam’s time in the United States was significant; six long months before they would return to Uganda. Half a year spent away from their parents and classmates so that they could minister to Americans and introduce our churches to the need of African children had to know Jesus. At the age of twelve Miriam and Miracle showed such faith, such courage. To think I felt pushed out of my comfort zone when asked to host from the haven of my own house, while they were obediently following God’s call to the ends of the earth.

Upon their departure the girls gave us a handwritten note expressing their gratitude. Tears were shed all around. I never would have expected to feel such a bond after four short days, but when they left, our house felt hollow with grief. Over dinner we all agreed we would happily host again, if given the opportunity.

As I lay my head on my pillow that night I asked God for forgiveness. I’d prided myself on my gift of hospitality, enjoying it so long as I could determine how to use it. In the quiet of my bedroom He gently reminded me that He gifted me with hospitality for His glory, not mine. I humbly asked Him for more opportunities to welcome others not just into my home but into my heart. There’s more than enough room, after all.

“Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full—pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap. The amount you give will determine the amount you get back.” -Luke 6:38

Dear Mom

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