Thursday, November 12, 2015

Cruise Ship or Battleship?

Recently the girls and I listened to a missionary. He ministers to people all over the world. He spends his days spreading the Gospel to a lost and dying world in places I have never even heard of.  He is in the midst of the battle.

He posed this question to the congregation…

Are you on a cruise ship or a battleship?

I immediately felt convicted, because I’m kind of cruising these days.

Oh, I put in my time on the battleship. I was quick to remind God of that. Do you see these kids?  Battle is a pretty accurate description.

Five months ago I wrote these words:

May 11, 2015 - It’s hard not to feel completely alone or unqualified or lots of other not-so-good stuff.

It seems like I should be better at this. I’ve been through this before. Why is it getting to me this time? Why am I second-guessing myself?

Is it even possible for me to stop the fits? What in the world can I do when she loses it?

I wish it worked like we practiced in training class, but she’s all arms and legs and grabbing hair and scratching at eyes. It’s just not as easy as I thought it would be.

I don’t like how it makes me feel.  The sense of failure is overwhelming, and trying to like her afterward is more than I can do.  I can see why folks give in.  I can see why they give up.

It would be very easy to give up. Right now. Today.

We were battle weary, bloodied, broken and tired.  We were on the battleship.

Today we don’t feel like that. Today we laugh and chat and work together like a team.

Today we find ourselves on the cruise ship.

But we won’t stay here very long. I blame these kids. The ones who know what foster care is really like. The ones who know loss and grief and heartache like I’ve never known. 

These girls prod me into the battle. Sometimes they drag me kicking and screaming.

“Can’t I just enjoy the quiet for a little bit longer?” I plead.

“No,” They say.

“Can’t someone else take this next turn?” I whine.

“No,” They say.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because there are kids like us that are still out there, still stuck, still waiting.  We don’t’ have time to spare.”

So I climb out of my deck chair by the pool, put on my helmet (because sometimes they throw stuff) and change ships.

I don’t want to disembark into eternity from a cruise ship; I want to crawl over the finish line bloody and bruised having spent everything I was given. I want to cross over on a battleship.

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