We were hosting a new family for supper and, having never met some of them before, thoroughly enjoyed the vivacity they brought to the evening. Upon leaving, the father thanked us sincerely and the words that slipped out of my mouth have haunted me ever since: “Our home is God’s home.”
Did I truly believe that? Then why did I sometimes feel left behind by the women who seemed to be touching thousands of lives for the kingdom of God? Women who were more “out there”? Was I being duped by the idea that to be a Christian witness, I also had to speak to thousands or write bestsellers?
I had lost sight of the opportunities that I had for advancing God’s kingdom – opportunities well within my grasp. I had also lost the vision of six little arrows who will go forth from this home someday.
My home might just be some wood, nails and paint – but when God has control of it, it suddenly becomes so much more.
It should be a safe place for others to come and bear their hearts. It is where folks know a warm bed, hot food and hugs will be waiting them. It should have the mark of Christ upon its atmosphere – one of love and forgiveness to all who enter here.
It should contain fervent conversation of the Scriptures around the dinner table. It is where I give of my own – my clothes, my Bible, my self – to those who need Jesus.
We may never know when the seeds will sprout that we plant. We may never see how deeply they will take root or when they will produce fruit. Serving others does not depend upon knowing the outcome.
We are only to minister in the ways God has placed in our hands. Hands that prepare food for hungry tummies and clothe those who need it. Hands that hold another in the midst of their grief.
I was on the way home from school when a clear, little voice began to fill the air. “I Have Decided to Follow Jesus.” Sung so sweetly by a precious 5-year-old who knows Jesus loves him . . . because the Bible tells him so.
And my heart began to crumble.
How could I not see the huge amount of potential that I drove to and from school everyday? There were future church leaders, missionaries and Bible scholars sitting among the lunchboxes. If I could see clearly, I’d see strong men and a woman of discernment holding those homework papers back there.
Wasn’t it my goal to train up little boys who sing of Jesus into strong and vibrant young men with a deep love for their God? Wasn’t it my aim to produce a lovely young woman to be a strong, godly support for a Christian man someday? Children who wouldn’t bend to their culture, but be the hands and feet of Jesus.
I may not touch thousands or even hundreds of souls for God in these short years I have here. In fact, I may only touch six.
These six who may someday touch thousands.
And it all begins in my little home . . .