We only ever had six children

We only ever had six children, three of whom survived to childbirth, and live and thrive to this day. Three died untimely in the womb, and as a mother I am very much looking forward to meeting the other half of our progeny within the next forty years or so (speaking of time from a human vantage point).

Our youngest, in her mid-twenties, is at home yet, a student and artist. But our large old three-story, five-bedroom home lends itself to hospitality, and three years ago my husband found a way to bring more temporary “children” to join our breakfast and supper table. He volunteered us to host international graduate students enrolled in an English language program.

I remarked to my husband a while back, “It’s like having adult kids who are really polite, entertaining, educational, and respectful, who never talk back, and who always bring their dishes to the sink. And they pay all the groceries.” He nodded. It’s a thing only parents of grown children would understand, perhaps.

I suppose another nice thing about this is that we don’t feel responsible for them in ways that we would for our own children. If they don’t go to school, if they don’t study, if they don’t eat right or get enough sleep—well, we offer advice, but we don’t agonize or stress over it. They have real parents who do that.

Yet we become family for a while. The laughter and conversation around our mealtimes attests to that, as does the evident mutual affection, the hugs, the e-mails.

Our own children are ambivalent about this situation. How could we give up their bedrooms to strangers? How could we ask them to share mealtimes with someone who doesn’t speak English? It takes a certain amount of inner strength to say, “Well, it’s our home and our life, and we enjoy this.”

So through our home have come students from Mexico, Thailand, Saudi Arabia, Libya, Turkey, Korea, Japan, Gabon, Brazil, and other far-flung countries. Some are as young as sixteen, some as old as mid-forties. Some stay for a month, some for over a year. Phil is the Papa, and I am Mrs. Edi. And, with few exceptions, we have enjoyed welcoming these young adventurers into our family.

Our current Arabic student has been with us for six months. The second son of a professor and his wife in Riyadh, he is a bit atypical of students from Saudi Arabia. He studies conscientiously, disciplines himself to work out daily at the gym, dresses conservatively (and sometimes wears his robe and headdress to class), converses with vivacity, and throws back his head and laughs with delight at all my husband’s jokes. Thoroughly Muslim, by culture and by faith, he helps us navigate the sometimes murky waters of politics and religion in Saudi Arabia.

Abdullah is as a son to my husband. Lizandro was as a brother. Chia Yi was as a daughter to me.

Yet for all the closeness, we know this is not a permanent family arrangement. They do not hold the same place in our hearts as do our own children. When they leave, we release them to the world and to the God who watches over all.

Reflecting on this, suddenly I am glad that God has decided on adoption, rather than on having temporary houseguests. I am his daughter, by birth, by legal standing. His is one house I will never have to leave.