There was a time in my life when my parents couldn’t be in the same room with each other. As a kid, I learned to wait on the wicker loveseat and stare impatiently out the large picture window. (Yes, it was the early nineties and we had wicker furniture in the living room.) As soon as I saw my dad’s black sedan pull into the driveway, I would yell to my sisters that it was time to go and we would race out the front door. Was I that excited to see my dad? Honestly, not really. I was just that eager to avoid him coming up to the house and igniting a possible confrontation with my mom.
In middle school, I remember standing up for my trumpet solo and quickly scanning the crowded gymnasium in search of supportive faces. I spotted my mom in the left set of bleachers and my dad in the farthest possible section to the right. In high school, when I got the lead in Oklahoma, my parents came to different shows, careful not to cross paths lest a community theater become a battleground.
There were a thousand spoken and unspoken hurts between my parents that spilled over into my heart. The way my dad wouldn’t help pay for my sister’s dance classes to make life harder for my mom. The way my mom didn’t hide her disdain for the summer vacations my dad took us girls on, which made me feel like my excitement was a betrayal. Fifteen years of marriage in and as many years of bitterness out. I never knew if their divorce was the right choice, the only choice. As a kid I never longed for them to get back together — I just wanted things to be different. I just wanted to escape the shrapnel of their pain.
At my college graduation, my dad pretended not to hear me when I asked him to stand next to me for a picture with our whole family — the original five. When I was getting married, my mom didn’t want to sit beside my dad and his new wife; my dad didn’t want to sit in the row behind my mom. Several verbal blowups and low blows left me gutted. Three days before my big day, I looked at my wedding dress hanging on the closet door and wondered if my dad would even show up to walk me down the aisle.
I share all this not as a catalog of grievances against my parents but to set the stage for the miracle I never expected.
Fast-forward several years to when my dad was in a difficult place in his life — well, difficult is an understatement. His second marriage had failed, as had his business and his health. Thanksgiving was approaching. Holidays are always extra complicated for kids of divorce. My sisters and I were all married at this point and had to juggle time with our in-laws and separate gatherings for our mom and dad. Now that my dad was single and struggling, the responsibility to host a celebration with him fell to one of us girls — an added stress when our individual lives were already maxed and being with Dad didn’t feel especially celebratory.
The details of what happened next have become a bit fuzzy through the fog of years. The question might have come through an email or group text thread, or maybe we were talking on the phone while I nursed a baby. Either way, I’ll never forget my mom’s words: “How would you feel if I invited your dad to join us for Thanksgiving?”
As I sat there speechless, my mom went on to explain how she understood what a burden it was to navigate three family get-togethers and how the busyness could take away from the joy of the holiday. She said she wasn’t sure if Dad would accept an invitation from her, but she felt like the Lord was asking her to extend it.
Honestly? My first thought was No way! I pictured the awkwardness of being in the same house all together. I thought about how I would take the chaos of bouncing from one Thanksgiving dinner to the next to the next over the tension of sitting at the same table with my parents for an extended meal. The family chasm caused by their divorce was way too wide to bridge with some mashed potatoes and gravy. Years and years of conflict and failed resolutions proved that reconciliation was impossible, right? So why even try?
Given our family history, this knee-jerk reaction was understandable — but it was also rooted in fear. I’m grateful to tell you that my initial response didn’t win out.
The first miracle was my mom asking my dad to Thanksgiving dinner. The second miracle was the doorbell ringing and my dad showing up in his classic corduroy slacks and argyle sweater and handing my mom a bottle of Martinelli’s. The miracles after that were too many to count.
As little ones threw corn kernels from high chairs and unspoken words passed in sideways glances between sisters, we made it through that first Thanksgiving dinner. My dad thanked my mom for inviting him and complimented her cooking. My mom thanked my dad for coming and gave him another piece of homemade pie to go. It felt a bit like I was living someone else’s life.
It was hard and uncomfortable and so very worth it. I left that dinner with a belly full of turkey and a heart full of praise. What I thought was surely impossible turned out not to be.
From our pain God produced a miracle — and I’m still giving thanks.
That Thanksgiving dinner was the first of many times my mom and dad would sit together at the same holiday table. After that, there was a standing invitation for my dad to join our family celebrations. And I never want to get over the miracle of it. I never want to lose sight of the fact that what took place over plates of green beans and baskets of bread was the work of the Holy Spirit — and a bunch of messed-up people willing to surrender to the gift of His leading.
Think about it: My mom could have ignored the Spirit’s stirring. Pain and resentment could have blocked her from extending an offering of peace and compassion. My dad could have rejected the invitation. Pride and bitterness could have been barriers to reconciliation and connection.
My sisters and I could have dismissed the hope of family harmony. Anger and unforgiveness for the turmoil caused by our parents’ fractured marriage could have prevented the miracle God wanted to do in our family. I could have said the pain of the past was already too much to bear, so why open myself to the possibility of more?
There are a dozen or more reasons why that first family dinner should never have happened following fifteen years of brutal divorce aftermath. But God . . . (Oh, those two small and mighty words.)
But God was working for the good of those who love Him. And that’s the wild thing about what His Word promises! “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28 NIV).
Did you catch that? All things. God doesn’t just use the moments of our lives that we deem worthy of an Instagram highlight reel. He doesn’t reserve His work only for the times when we get things right, when we walk without stumbling, when we run without being wounded by the pain of our own making. He works all things together for our good. The only qualifier is that we love Him.
I showed up to that unexpected Thanksgiving dinner still carrying old wounds crusted over with the scab of time. I came with my guard partly up and plenty of skepticism stuffed in my back pocket. But I came to the table. And so did my mother, my father, and my sisters. Sometimes just showing up is the beginning to building new bridges of connection. Showing up with a hefty dose of humility helps.
Humility says I’m willing to give the other person the benefit of the doubt.
Humility says being right or even being heard is not the most important thing.
Humility says I’m going to do my best to love well regardless of how someone else chooses to respond.
I didn’t hear those exact words come out of anyone’s mouth that November night, but each person’s actions spoke volumes. And God’s voice in our midst was the loudest. I’m not sure who else heard Him, but I couldn’t ignore the tender, relentless assurance of the Spirit saying, See Me. See how I’m doing the impossible. See how I’m answering prayers you didn’t even know to pray. See how I’m infusing hope and life and healing into your family in ways you never could have imagined.
Perhaps that’s what the Holy Spirit is whispering to you today too.
Written by Becky Keife
Today’s devotion is an excerpt from Becky Keife’s chapter, “What If Pain Is the Stage for Miracles?” in our (in)courage book, Come Sit with Me.
Being human is hard. Being in relationships with other humans is even harder. People are complex and relationships are messy but loving one another well is possible. Whether navigating political or religious differences, dealing with toxic people or our own unforgiveness, this book tackles the struggles no one really wants to talk about. But there is hope! We can actually grow closer to God and others through the circumstances we’d rather run from. Come Sit with Me will show you how.
How has God worked out the impossible in your life? Or where do you need Him to reframe your pain as the future stage for a miracle? We’d love to hear.
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