Somewhere, somehow, we bought the illusion that at some blissful point in our lives we would, or even could, attain autopilot status and cruise through life peacefully.
That ain't peace.
Since Jamie and I became foster parents 18 months ago, Satan has waged war on us. Every time we have had a major child placement, the stomach virus has hit, and the washing machine and/or dryer has broken the same week. No lie.
I've had to start laughing, to keep from crying. A busted head in the middle of the night, a wreck, backing into a dumpster, "brown rain" falling from our ceiling, a flooded basement, and finally this last week, a major virus attacked Jamie, and we ended up in the ER, only to find a tumor in his lung, which we later discovered was benign. (I'm so grateful.)
I don't say these things to moan, but it does make you think.
I Peter 5:8 tell us that "our enemy the Devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour."
Perhaps I'm misunderstanding, but if I'm begging God to break and use me so that my life would proclaim Jesus is real, I think I'm setting myself up for attack.
There are moments when I think of walking away from all of this. No more extra mouths to feed, no more late night conversations with Mommas, no more court dates and social worker visits. I dream of some controllable level of comfort we might could attain once more.
But then He graces me with glimpses of His glory breaking through, shattering the dark places of the soul in them, in my children, in me.
Would I trade glimpsing a glory that cannot be withheld, for comfort?
And so I'll fight. I'll know the attacks and annoyances are coming, and I'll push deep into the glory of my King who has the victory...
Because that's peace.