Around this time of year, for many years in my youth, my church and school would begin preparing for our annual Christmas pageant. Wiggly little kids, we’d anxiously await the assignment of our roles. Was I going to be an angel this year or a shepherd or maybe a narrator? Gabrielle would be cool! Or even an inn keeper. They always gave the Wise Men and Joseph to the boys. I was never lucky enough to get selected as Mary. Every little girl wanted to play Mary. It was a ritual of sorts, to reenact the birth story of the Savior and one that just about any church-attending Christian could largely recite by heart…
“In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered… Joseph went… to a town called Bethlehem… to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child… and while they were there, the time came for her to give birth… There were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them… suddenly a multitude of the heavenly hosts appeared.” There were wise men that fell to their knees bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh… and a baby, wrapped in swaddling clothing, lying in a manger… because there was no room for them in the inn…. no room in the inn.
And every Christmas all over the world, the story is told over and over again… and each time, I imagine that millions of people have an unsettling, ill feeling, like I did, when Joseph and a very pregnant Mary knock on door after door and are turned away. Only finally catching a break when one, kind inn keeper lets them stay in a stable with the animals, where she gives birth. And we all marvel at the irony of a” King” entering the world under such humble circumstances.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I gained more insight into the story… Despite the white- washed picture books and pageants of my youth, I came to realize that Jesus was a middle- eastern man. It was a brown baby that was born that night, and an immigrant- not a citizen of the Roman Empire but living under Roman authority, born to a young mother… with no place to stay. And despite our inflated sense of ego, those inn keepers who shut their doors, were much more usual than the one who gave them shelter.
We were never suppose to get our current foster placement. It was an “out of the blue” phone call, like they all are, when I was asked if we could take a 12 year old boy. I said “Of course”. But unlike the calls of the past, this was a rare heads up… they’d call back tomorrow with more details. Normally, we’re given a hour or two before the child arrives. So I took the time to grab some extra groceries, make the bed up in “boyish” bedding, to dust the shelves and set out a toothbrush and toiletries, fresh socks, underwear and some clothing options- because the kids rarely come with anything at all. But when tomorrow came… one child became two and we were asked if we could take a sibling group… “These two can’t be separated.”, the agency said. We got an emergency override to make our single bedroom work for this brother and sister until we could make more room. And I readied the other bed with “girlie” sheets and another toothbrush, more socks, underwear and clothes.
It’s been four years since we first began our foster journey and the comments I’ve gotten in regards to it are as varied as, “You guys are angels!” to “Wow, aren’t those kids really messed up and isn’t that a big risk you’re exposing your family to???” And I’m always amazed how many of the people with comments like the later, call themselves Christians.
Especially when I recall the words Jesus later spoke as an adult when he taught his people… “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” … “Hungry and you gave me something to eat… Thirsty and you gave me something to drink… a stranger and you invited me in… I needed clothes and you clothed me…”
Unlike the passage above from the book of Matthew-in the Christian bible, fostering for us, has nothing to do with gaining passage to heaven, pleasing a god, or even faith for that matter. I lost my faith a long time ago. I have doubts about even the presence of an after-life. We expect nothing in return for our work. We do it because we saw a need and we felt compelled to help. Still, the Christmas story of my youth pervades my soul.
The truth is, yes, it is a risk. A well-calculated one that my family went though extensive training and education to prepare for and one that we discuss often in family meetings each time we reassess if this is a journey we want to continue. But a risk nonetheless.
Why is it that we can watch a play with children on a stage and feel the sadness and even, dare I say, judgement, towards the inn keepers that turned Mary and Joseph away… insisting to ourselves that WE would have been the kind inn keeper that opened our doors… and yet… living in a world of extravagance and privilege, all around us are thousands of people in need- many of them young mothers and children… and we lock our doors and tighten our purse strings, reasoning that helping them is somehow too much, too risky, or just not our job.
The truth is, we’ve all been the unaccommodating inn keepers… and we have to do better. We have to be willing to stretch a little more, bend a little more, give a little more.
I’m not here to say that everyone should be a foster parent. Some people can’t. Some people won’t pass the background checks or meet the criteria. And some people just don’t have it- the money, the time, the patience or skills. And it isn’t easy- I’ll never say that it is. But a lot more people could, if they allowed themselves to move past the fear or the excuses.
And foster care isn’t the only way to help. There are so many other ways to show your love and charity for our fellow human beings- tasks as simple as handing out lunches and smiles to the homeless, volunteering at soup kitchens or food banks, donating to charities, helping a friend or a neighbor in need- with a visit, getting them groceries or giving them a ride. Do you take the time to notice those around you or do you keep your head down and hurry on? Do you stop and hold the door, lend a helping hand, check in on the elderly, or are you just “too busy”? Have you offered a single mom or an over-worked couple a night of babysitting… or invited the unusual and lonely kid at school out for a play date… or are those kids just too needy? Have you made dinner for a family in need or better yet, welcomed them to your table… or are groceries just too expensive? It’s amazing how we can often find time and money for the things that serve us, but not for serving others.
I don’t write this post pretending to be something that I’m not. I’m not better than anyone. I’m not even a Christian anymore. And I’m no angel or savior. I’m just a person who answered the door when someone knocked. And I’ve discovered the magic that happened when I answered. What initially felt impossible and overwhelming, proved plausible and rewarding. And I’ve also felt sinking regret when I knew I could’ve done better. I see the tremendous need around me and my heart aches. I know we can all do more.
This winter season, let us all find room. Or better yet, make room, if not in our homes, within the confides of our hearts for someone else. Life is too short to turn out the light and ignore the knocking.
