I am a missionary’s kid, and yes, in my mind, that has all the same connotations as a PK or Preacher’s Kid. I think there should be a diagnosis in the DSM IV with a write up that explains the extreme stress we are under as kids of these “godly” parents. The expectations that we will spout scripture at every turn, be perfect with no hormone or peer pressure related falls and never long to be part of the world that we are to be “in but not of.”

My parents were great, although I certainly didn’t think it at the time, while I was growing up. They were always there, always available for us to have friends over or drive us somewhere. We saw the country, experienced lessons in an abundance of activities trying to find our niche, had plenty of food, clothes and heated and air conditioned house, and aside from the occasional grounding or spanking which we well deserved, had a very charmed up-bringing. Now granted this in hindsight, going through it, well, not so charmed at all.

But my point is, this upbringing and seeing my parents relate to others and give to others, while maintaining our family, has influenced me. I want to serve my family. Yes, I realize that my family definition varies greatly from other peoples, but it is what it is. This is my mission field as a missionary would say. Some people give money, some people give their lives in the military, some people travel to foreign countries and learn languages, some go and build houses or teach school in impoverished neighborhoods.

My mission, my heart, is raising children to be the absolute best person they can be, and just maybe be able to give back to their heart’s mission. Now you would say. . . so what, every mother does that. And yes, I have the two most fabulous biological children in the world, you’ve seen or heard about them in my previous writings. But those aren’t the only children I’m referring too. I am talking about the foster kids who have flitted in and out of our lives the last two years, the children who no one else wants or has time for, the children who have been trampled on . . . those are my children. THOSE ARE MY CHILDREN TOO!

This isn’t something new. Before I married, I had begun the process of becoming a foster parent. My dream has always been a home full of teenagers. Now I am on the cusp of realizing that dream. But there are lots of road blocks: size of my house, number of rooms in my house, income or lack thereof to support a larger family as a single mom, etc. These are not insurmountable and for the first time in years, I am waking up every morning with the same prayer: “You know my heart, You know my vote on whether these kids can come to me, Your will be done, I am leaving it in your hands because I cannot do it.”

I am ready for the next challenge, I welcome it. And this IS my heart’s desire.