UFOs. The California Wildfires. Odd aeronautical disasters. Our failing bodies resulting from vaccines. Hypnosis of the masses through subliminal advertising. Reptilian humanoids running the government. The Illuminati. (Is it even okay to acknowledge the word “Illuminati”??)
America funding our national enemies. A mass deportation that rips away friends and family. Resources being diminished by undocumented immigrants. Nazis. Growing catastrophic natural disasters. Another Great Depression. Another World War. The right wing. The left wing. Giant meteors hurling to earth (and with Bruce Willis out of commission, we are SUNK.)
Social media can be the worst. With the world literally in the palms of our hands through our mobile devices, we cannot escape the speculations that mutate from small sparks of supposition blazing into all-consuming nightmarish infernos. For me, those fears can be overwhelming. Sometimes paralyzing.
In times when I feel myself tumbling down a dark hole of shadowy tomorrows, I have my Bible bookmarked to Isaiah 8:11-13 with a colorful stickynote peeking out of its pages for rapid access:
11 “This is what the Lord says to me with his strong hand upon me, warning me not to follow the way of this people:
12 ‘Do not call conspiracy
everything this people calls a conspiracy;
do not fear what they fear,
and do not dread it.
13 The Lord Almighty is the one you are to regard as holy,
he is the one you are to fear,
he is the one you are to dread.’”
Life is hard. Sometimes impossible. There are SO many things we can fear. We scroll past posts that inject “what-ifs” – or erroneous lies – into our imaginations, thrusting our emotions into overdrive.
But truly the only thing we should fear is life away from God and His will for our lives. Living a life bent on ignoring God and His direction also shuns peace and joy and purpose and hope. And for me, that is terrifying!
In truth, our world still scares me. A lot. I don’t believe my fear makes me ungodly or unfaithful. I think it makes me human. Even King David expressed to God, “WHEN I am afraid, I put my trust in you.” (Psalm 56:3) Fear likes me. It visits so often that I have had to spend lots of time keeping it at bay while trying desperately to learn how to chase it away. I have learned from all those trials that my only hope for survival is to cheer on my shaky faith and trust God. By doing so, I strengthen that spiritual muscle that makes the next time fear comes a-knocking a bit easier to fight.
But do you want to know what makes me MOST afraid? Living life without God. Trust me. It’s not pretty!
Someone needs to hear the words ‘Don’t fear what they fear. Don’t dread what they dread’. Fear cannot keep us from dying, but it can certainly keep us from living.
On a visit to San Augustine, Texas, way back in our blissful empty-nester phase, Clay and I went to breakfast at a cute little cafe with my mother, my sister, and my brother-in-law. It was one of those endearing places where every spare inch of wall and floor space is covered in humorous sayings like “Practice thanking God for more than elastic waistbands”, pop art paintings of large-headed cows, and knickknacks of every type of whimsical fun.
San Augustine is a tiny town of maybe 1000 people so far east that it’s 23 miles from the Louisiana border. It is the type of small town where everyone knows everyone, and because my brother-in-law had returned to San Augustine after playing professional baseball, he remained the hometown hero. Entering that cafe with him was akin to playing the entourage of someone famous: invisible because of his presence yet important through association. We were escorted to a table quickly as he made his rounds shaking hands and kissing babies.
On the floor, not two feet from my chair sat the cutest decorative concrete pig. He was about a foot tall, he had a smile that warmed my heart, and out of his shoulder blades sprouted dainty angel’s wings. He was the very best companion while I ate my omelet, smiling up at me from his permanent place on the floor, and we bonded.
I don’t collect pigs on purpose. My very small pig collection was given to me by my sister and mother – one pig at a time – as a joke to remind me of the time Clay gifted me with a pot-bellied pig a week after we had replaced the flooring of our first home. I did NOT appreciate Clay’s gift as its hooves scratched across my new linoleum, and he (the pig, not the husband) was sent back before we could name him.
But that concrete pig with wings? I fell in love with that pig. Before we left the restaurant, my sister asked if we could buy it. It was not for sale, and the owner couldn’t remember where she had purchased it. I had to leave my pig friend, but that charming concrete pig had nestled itself into my heart.
For the next couple of years, I looked for a pig just like that one. It became a game with a bit of obsession sprinkled on top. The price didn’t matter (well, a somewhat REASONABLE price anyway). If a store we passed looked like there might be a remote possibility that they would sell concrete flying pigs, we stopped to ask. No luck. The online shopping world at my fingertips didn’t help, either. Amazon may sell live tadpoles but not my particular concrete flying pig.
When your family and friends know you’ve been looking for a concrete flying pig for two years, you are gifted all kinds of flying pigs. Flying pig mugs and socks and iron paperweights and Christmas tree ornaments and tote sacks. My mom even found me a flying concrete pig, and though it was adorable, he wasn’t “the” pig. Time ticked along, and the tug of that concrete flying pig settled into resolution: That chubby, smiling, winged concrete pig wasn’t mine to own.
The long journey from the first day I met Margo at my school until the day the kids moved into our home lasted almost two years too. I NEVER would have fathomed that she and her siblings would be ours one day. If someone had told Clay and me that we would start over with four children birthed by strangers, our reply might have been something like, “When pigs fly!” (but probably something much more colorful).
From the first “what-if?”-glimmers of the kids, the path Clay and I journeyed was done with the tiniest baby steps. We were clueless about what we were doing. We didn’t want to change our world. We didn’t want to give up the plans we had nurtured for years that started with the phrase “When our kids are grown and gone, we will (fill in the blank). In retrospect, the best way to describe it was that God placed a curtain in front of us, allowing us to only see, question, react to, be obedient to, and prepare for what was right at our feet at any given moment. Saying we inched our way forward would be inaccurate: We millimetered our way forward.
Can we handle four new kids? Do we WANT to forever change the trajectory of our lives? Do we really want to give up our current, peaceful, fulfilling life and pour chaos on top? Are we okay with the deaths of so many of our dreams? Moreover, are we the best parents the kids can get?
Our answer to every question could have been answered, “When pigs fly!”
The kids were living in their group home when the seed of maybe was planted within us. I was merely their old school librarian who brought them pjs and books. I knew there was no way they could come live with us. I had looked up home specification requirements for fostering, and though our house was large, we did not have enough bedrooms for legal foster care. God’s answer HAD to be “no”. Right?
But then, at the encouragement of the kids’ court-appointed advocate Kari, the kids’ lawyer Vicky called and asked if she could visit our home. I said yes, no harm, no foul. I told her that I had researched the rules, and my home wouldn’t work.
But she visited anyway, and she told me otherwise.
I told her we had no foster license.
She suggested approaching the court as “fictive kin”. Fictive kin has close, personal ties with uprooted children even if they are not related.
I reminded Vicky that I was only their librarian from a year ago. She brushed me off and said the court could decide.
I could have said “no” when Kari asked if I would buy them new shoes and deliver them to the children’s home. I could have said “no” when Vicky asked to visit our home. I could have said “no” when she mentioned fictive kin. But I did not. At that point in the process, Clay had left everything in my hands because, ultimately, that man is up for anything I drag him into. If I wanted to purchase a zoo, he would make it happen.
Every day I prayed for wisdom and for signs and for any solid answer I could embrace. More decisions came our way. The possibility of inviting those children to live in our home became more real every day. Clay’s opinions and decisions became necessary. GOD’S decisions became necessary
Please, God, show us! Scream your answer into my spirit. For the sake of these kids, I NEED TO KNOW your will! We cannot – we WILL NOT – let any of this go any further if you do not give us an answer! Give us a sign, God! A sign we cannot ignore!
About a week before the day the kids would eventually arrive at our home, my sister called me. The strangest thing had happened. When she opened the front door of her home, my winged pig – THE winged pig, was sitting on her porch, staring up at her with a smile. Two years after I sat beside that pig at breakfast, the owner of the restaurant – a complete stranger who I had never met – remembered how much Pam Winfield’s sister loved that pig. She left that pig on my sister’s doorstep for me and refused a dime of payment.
How is that for a sign? An unmistakable sign announcing to Clay and me that pigs were flying and that we were inviting four new children to live in our home.
Flying Pigs 