It was 90 degrees, full sun, the first day of cross country practice. I had been an athlete, but never a runner, and my body and mind weren’t conditioned to push past the initial discomfort, shortness of breath, heaviness of limbs, stomach cramps and environmental inconvenience.
“Don’t stop,” said Coach McCabe. “Slow your pace, but keep going.”
Over time, as I became conditioned, I gained a better understanding of my limits and capabilities. I learned that sometimes, when it felt like I was running out of gas, there were still reserves in my tank and I could push farther, give more than I thought possible. I began to understand what Coach McCabe meant when she told us to “leave it all on the course.” This Lent I am reflecting on this in the context of my spiritual conditioning.
I have always felt a particular stirring in my heart for children who need a secure place in the world to belong; it’s why I became a foster parent 15 years ago. Recently, after taking a hiatus from fostering to raise two biological children, my family and I accepted an invitation to welcome, feed and care for foster children again. What we thought would be a few days or weeks together has predictably become a few months, and it could be another few before next steps become clearer.
As foster parents we can decide what our limits are and how long the children in our care can stay. I’m struggling with how to make that decision. The truth is there’s not a lot of joy in this endeavor right now. Everyone living under my roof is safe and fed, but we’re coexisting, not coalescing. We’re not a family, and that’s as it should be; we barely know each other. And yet I am thirsting for assurance that something good will come out of this—I want there to be some logic and redemption in this story for all of the sacrifice that’s been made, work that’s been done, suffering that’s been endured.
In Lent, we’re sent into the deserts of our own making to wander, fast and thirst for 40 days. If we die to ourselves, we’re told it’s possible we’ll be reborn into something new and better. This is the season that seals us with ashes, suffering and death—all built around the promise of eventual resurrection. I’m there, wandering, seeking meaning, purpose and clarity. But it’s as much a mystery to me as it ever was how I can love my neighbors as I love myself if I am always putting them first. I am unsure of my limits and capabilities and wondering if it’s time to put on my own oxygen mask.
Lately, when things have been especially challenging, I’ve been asking myself if I’m just not conditioned yet and if my capacity to love isn’t greater than I think it may be. Can I keep going, push farther, give more?
In many moments as a foster parent, I am just trying to get through the day, fending off waning patience and tending to fraying nerves—my children’s, my husband’s, mine. In a few moments, we see each other as we really are; we let ourselves be seen—and something stirs. Song. Laughter. Tears. Necessary reminders that, at the end of the day, we’re all strangers and we’re all family. We’re all in need and we’re all able to give more. We’re all us and them, and like it or not, we belong to one another.
Like most every life experience, I know I’m not meant to understand how this one will end, and I’m definitely not meant to design the ending. I’m asked instead to accept the inconvenience, the lack of certainty, the absence of control for as long as I can. Foster parenting is only possible with a large degree of surrender. But how long can I do it? And how long can I ask my children to? And how does what we think we’re capable of square with what we’re asked to do in this Lenten season?
When I look to Jesus as a model for clarity and direction, the cross stares back at me. When I question where the Holy Spirit is in all this, I hearthink of Coach McCabe. Then, unsure where the finish line is, unsure how things will turn out in the end, I focus on what’s just ahead, put one foot in front of the other and keep going.
Politics
Faith
Culture
Vatican
Scripture
Podcasts