Room for One More

One of the things I learned to appreciate about my father is that he never seemed to spend much time asking whether he could afford to help someone. He simply helped them.

That probably sounds reckless to some people. Looking back, there were certainly times when our own circumstances weren’t exactly overflowing with abundance. We weren’t wealthy. We weren’t even particularly comfortable, and by most standards, more often than not, we lived somewhere in the neighborhood of “getting by.”

Yet somehow there always seemed to be room for one more.

When I was growing up, my dad had a habit of praying for God’s blessing over every home we moved into, regardless of whether we were renting or buying. He would dedicate it to God. At the time, I didn’t think much about it, but looking back, I am certain that my father believed every word of those prayers. Perhaps that’s why he never seemed to think of the house as entirely ours.

If someone needed help, the door opened. If someone needed a meal, a place was set at the table. If someone needed a bed, we figured something out.

One particular family comes to mind. We were living in a three-bedroom, one-bath single-wide mobile home. There were already five of us packed into it when a young family suddenly appeared at church one day. They had recently moved to the area because the husband was expecting a job to be waiting for him. Unfortunately, the job he had moved his family for didn’t materialize. Their vehicle was on its last leg, money was scarce, and they suddenly found themselves in a difficult situation.

Dad brought them home. Not for supper, but to live.

The details are a little blurry now, but I remember children sleeping everywhere. Floors became bedrooms. Privacy became a luxury. But somehow we managed to squeeze in together. Everyone got fed, had a roof over their head, a place to shower, and even somewhere to do laundry until they were back on their feet. And somehow, we all made it work.

At the time, it seemed perfectly normal. Now I realize it wasn’t.

Another time, when I was in seventh grade, I was babysitting for a family in our mobile home park. The father was a long-haul truck driver who was often away for weeks at a time. One day the mother left to go out for the evening with a friend and simply never came back.

When she hadn’t returned after the weekend, I called my mom because I had no idea what had happened or what to do. I didn’t know how to contact the father. I didn’t know where they had family. I didn’t know anything beyond the fact that a little girl needed someone.

My mother’s answer was simple. “Bring her home.”

So I did.

That little girl ended up staying with us for many months while the county tried to locate relatives. Time passed. My parents loved her, cared for her, and eventually began adoption proceedings. Just days before everything could be finalized, the court located the girl’s grandmother, who stepped forward to take responsibility for her.

I remember the disappointment. I remember the tears. And I remember that this wasn’t the first child my parents had taken in. Nor would it be the last.

The older I get, the more I realize my father had a different definition of enough than most people. Most of us look at what we have left over before deciding whether we can extend help to others. But my father seemed to look at the person standing in front of him.

If someone was hurting, he made room. If someone was hungry, he shared. If someone needed shelter, he opened the door.

Perhaps that’s what faith looks like when it leaves the church pew and takes up residence in the living room. Not grand speeches. Not impressive theology. Just an ordinary man who believed God meant what He said and tried to live accordingly.

My father never considered himself remarkable. I doubt he ever imagined that decades later his daughter would still be thinking about crowded bedrooms, makeshift beds, and one more plate set on the table.

Sometimes I wonder if all those years of making room for one more person were quietly preparing my dad’s heart for an even greater promise.

Jesus said, “In my Father’s house are many mansions… I go to prepare a place for you” (John 14:2).

My dad believed that promise with all his heart. And perhaps that’s one of the reasons I find so much comfort in it today.

One day, when the Lord returns and “the dead in Christ shall rise first” (1 Thessalonians 4:16), my father will awaken to a home far better than any he ever dedicated to God down here. He will finally live in a house where there is room for everyone.

No one will have to squeeze into crowded bedrooms.

No one will wonder whether there is enough food.

No one will have to scrimp, save, stretch, or do without.

Every need will be met by the One who promised, “I will come again, and receive you unto myself” (John 14:3).

Until then, I find myself grateful for the example my father left behind. Not because he was perfect, but because he showed me what faith looks like when it puts on work clothes, opens the front door, and sets another place at the table.

Perhaps that’s the thing about everyday faithfulness. The person living it rarely sees its significance. Everyone else does.

If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.

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