Being Used

            It is a part of our daily prayers that God use us to God’s purposes. We say it every morning.  Yet we often don’t realize when it might be happening.

            We’d had 9-year-old Antonio in our home for a few months.  Prior to coming to our house, Antonio had been in six placements in the previous four months.  He never lasted anywhere for long.  Partly because of his behaviors.  And partly because of his family.

            When they’d first placed him with us the social workers had warned us. The family was involved in the drug trade.  Their history was fraught with violence and criminal activity.  We were warned not to let Antonio use our home phone to call his parents. Not to let him give his parents our address or phone number.

            We’d been surprised by the warnings.  We were just the foster parents.  We couldn’t imagine that there’d be any problems.

            On Saturday evening Antonio had his phone call with his mom, using Geoff’s cell phone.  He’d been having a nice visit with his mom when he came into the living room and asked what the name of our church was.  Without looking up from what I was doing, I told him. He whipped the cell phone out from behind his back and repeated the name of the church into the phone.

            And I realized too late that I had been played.

            Moments later, after saying goodbye, he happily reported that his mom was coming to our church tomorrow. And, she was bringing his two older brothers–one of whom was in treatment, and the other in another foster home.

            I was irritated.  We were being invaded.  And used.

            The next morning, as our family made our way into one of the back pews where we normally sat, Antonio kept craning around trying to locate his family.  Just sure that they’d be there any minute.

            I looked around, too, grateful that so far they hadn’t arrived.  And suspecting that they wouldn’t.  Still, I was annoyed that he’d gotten his hopes up.

            I leaned over and mentioned to him that maybe she couldn’t get the oldest brother out of the treatment center, or maybe she hadn’t been able to arrange a ride.  He nodded, solemnly.  Clearly disappointed.

            Just as the opening hymn was beginning, in walked Antonio’s mom and brothers.  They stood at the end of our pew, waiting for us to squeeze together more to make room for them.  Though there clearly was not enough room for them in our pew.  We squeezed, and pressed against each other, and they wiggled into place at the end of our pew.

            There we sat, Geoff and all our kids, with me at the end of our family next to Antonio.  And on the other side of Antonio was his mom, and his two teenage brothers.  By the first scripture reading Antonio had gotten up and wiggled in between his brothers, leaving me sitting next to his mom.

            And I was angry.

            We’d been warned, for crying out loud.  They’d told us that these parents wouldn’t respect our boundaries.  They’d cautioned us to keep our lives as private as possible. And we’d been duped.  By a 9-year-old and his mom.

            I sat there in the pew, forcing myself not to scowl, or cross my arms over my chest in an angry defensive posture.  I felt used. I felt taken advantage of.  That they had taken advantage of our attendance at church to have contact with their son, even though contact was supposed to be scheduled through the social workers, not through us.  But church is a public gathering place.  It’s not like we could have done anything to prevent someone from attending.  Even if their reasons for being there might not be really straightforward.

            The pastor was starting the sermon.  But I was busy elsewhere.  My mind trying to sort out this situation.

            I understood this mom trying to spend time with her son.  I understood these brothers wanting to see their little brother who lived somewhere else now.  And I understood Antonio’s desire to see his family.

            But I still felt angry.  We were followed to church by this woman and her two sons so that they could see the little boy who happened to live with us. They were here trying to circumvent the rules of the system.  And in the process, infringing on our family’s practices.

            But as I sat there, another thought managed to whisper its way into my mind.  It was kind of interesting circumstances which brought this woman and her sons to church that morning.  No one, in a million years, could have forced her to come here.  Yet, here she was.  Sitting and listening.  Hugging her son.  Being very appropriate.  Leaning over occasionally to whisper to me how good it felt to be back in a church.

            And by the time the pastor was wrapping up his sermon, I think I was smiling.  And the tears were right there, too.  What a funny thing.  Believing fully in a God who can use all things if we’ll only get out of the way, I found myself having to step aside and just let things happen as they were going to happen. I had to let go of my anger.  And instead, smile at the orchestration of events.  This woman was in church.  She was prayerful, appreciative, and appropriate. Circumstances beyond anything that anyone could have planned had brought her back into a church.  And it had been a long time.  She told me so herself.  Yet here she was.  Worshipping. A black woman, in a predominantly white church.  An addict, in what was at times a rigidly sober congregation.

            Near the end of the service, during the “sharing of the peace” time, she gave me a hug and thanked me. She thanked me for taking good care of her son.  She told me that she felt God speaking to her heart that morning and she intended on coming back next week.  I said that was great.   That we’d save a spot for her and the boys.  And she gave me another hug.

            And a little later, as we filed out of church, it occurred to both of us that our prayers for today had already been answered.

            We were being used.