I'm considering working with the junior highers at church next year. Yeah, I know what you're thinking: Why don't you take on something easy, like heading up a building program or mediating between the contemporary-vs.-traditional-worship factions?
This fall we'll have the largest cohort of seventh- and eighth-graders ever. (What was in the air in 1984? Maybe it was all that Reaganesque optimism.) It is also true that a portion of those kids are ADD. But I have a vested interest in such a ministry. My daughter, Amanda, is one of the fairest flowers in this bumper crop of middle-schoolers, and I'd like to have a hand in what she learns and from whom she learns it.
Besides, I know my husband, Fritz, will support me. I may even be able to talk him into helping out. Either way, I couldn't do it—couldn't do much of anything—without him. And, although he doesn't have the same fools-rush-in zest for involvement that I do, I know he couldn't do much without me, either. We make things possible for each other; we extend each other.
This is more than a matter of picking up the slack for one another in the mechanics of living—he helps Amanda figure out decimals while I walk the dog in freezing rain. (Trust me: If it's a choice between decimals and freezing rain, I'll take the rain.) We've always been competent at juggling the family business. But lately I've been realizing that there's more going on in our 19-year marriage, something mysterious and, maybe, Spirit-breathed. Because we are two-become-one, we can touch deeper and reach further and hope higher than we could as separate little atoms. We may, in a small way, be contributing to the work of God's Kingdom.1