Not long ago, my husband asked me a question:
"Now that we've been here a while, have you thought about what ministry you want to get involved in?"He didn't know what hit him. Not literally, of course, but almost.
You see, when we moved here, I had all these grandiose ideas of what my life would be like.
I'd have a dozen neighborhood kids coming to play in my yard in the afternoons. And we'd sit on the front porch and sip lemonade and eat assembly-line-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
I'd volunteer to read aloud at the devastatingly underperforming local elementary school. (Not the school my kids go to, mind you. So I'd totally be doing this out of the goodness of my heart.) And I would get companies and bookstores to donate books so that every child I read to would go home with a copy of his very own.
I'd mentor girls at the enrichment center around the corner where my boys often go after school.
I'd volunteer at the library down the street and start some sort of kids' program.
But we've been here for a year. And none of that has happened.
So when my husband asked me "What ministry do you want to get involved in?" I lost it. Because in his question I heard a veiled accusation that what I had done this year wasn't ministry. And therefore wasn't important. It wasn't what he meant, of course. But it's what I heard.