| Dear Xanga, I fear that our relationship has run its course. We’ve reached a dead end. I’ve hardly paid attention to you for the last few months, and, honestly, I haven’t really missed you. I have, however, missed writing. So below—perhaps for the last time—I have poured myself out in words. Just remember the good times we’ve had, my friend; I know I will. Love, Leah There’s nothing quite like spending a few days at home to remember who you are. My family tree is an extraordinary structure, and in the past few days I’ve seen the deepest of its roots. They reach past fleshly relations and deep into God’s grace. Fifteen people were at my house for Thanksgiving. Only four of them were my genetic relatives, but the others were family nonetheless. My parents worked as houseparents at Cookson Hills Christian Ministries, a children’s home, for 14 years before we moved to Joplin. Cookson Hills takes in children of all ages whose parents can’t take care of them and places them in loving homes with families like mine. So my parents were responsible for ten other kids besides my brother, sister, and me. Those kids came from the worst, most unfair life circumstances, and they desperately needed to be loved. In the years my parents served at Cookson Hills, they became another set of parents to a lot of kids. Those kids have since grown and matured into adults, and they are as much a part of the Gronewold family as I am. So for this Thanksgiving—just like every other—several of my brothers and sisters from Cookson Hills joined us. In addition to our family, a soon-to-be single mother and her three girls joined us, because they’re currently living with my parents. The mother actually used to live at Cookson Hills, but she never lived with us. She’s struggling to get out of a bad marriage and start rebuilding her life, and my parents are helping her do so. So looking around the dinner table for the past few days has given me a candid peak at my family’s roots. For as long as I can remember, those who had no place else to go have come to my house to be loved. They come from broken families, poverty, drug addictions, and anything else Satan can throw at them. My parents have opened their hearts and home not because of their own kindness but because they know grace firsthand. God’s grace, generosity, and sacrifice welcome us into his kingdom and set an example for us to follow in how we treat each other. My parents have made my family a model of how we who follow Jesus are grafted into God’s family through grace. God gives even when we steal and loves even when we hate. My roots are humble. I have not come from wealth or glamour but from sacrifice and generosity. My family is not perfect but is beautifully blemished with scars left by healed wounds. At my innermost core, that is who I am. Lyric of the Day: People are fragile things, you should know by now. Be careful what you put them through.
The Editors, Munich |
