Adopted
Max was a scruffy puppy with old-lady-gray hair. Mostly Cairn terrier, we thought, but since he never told us, we weren’t sure. We adopted Max as a replacement for Angel, a cockapoo who all her many days lived up to her name.
We were happy to have Max and gratified to rescue him from the home he shared with mean beagles. He passed my requirements for a family pet: he didn’t bite, shed, smell, or need pricey food and expensive grooming. He was housebroken, easily transportable, and reasonably cute. But when it came to courage, Max was a failure.
If a stranger came near, he’d give one sharp bark, then dive for cover. At the park where dogs could run free, he’d crouch by our feet and shiver. He treated every car ride like a trip back to mean-beagle-land.
But we weren’t taking him back. We had paid the animal control center a $30 adoption fee, and it was nonrefundable. Of course we were tempted the day we left him alone for an hour and came home to two sets of shredded (shredded!) window blinds. We also thought about it the time he dug slimy chicken skins out of the garbage and smeared them across the kitchen floor. And then there were those times he went outside and wallowed in putrid, disgusting stuff—well, we knew what Max was capable of. But for better or worse, he was ours. For keeps.
We told him so over and over, but Max still lived in fear. He was even afraid of his food. He would circle his bowl a few times, then poke it with a paw and jump away. Making sure it was thoroughly dead, I guess. Once after watching this ridiculous routine, I knelt, parted his stringy bangs, looked down into his dark eyes, and said, “Chill, Max. We would not give you food that would bite you back. Don’t you get it? You’re safe. You’re adopted!”
Max didn’t answer, but the moment I said the word adopted, God spoke to me. A tough trial had left me anxious and insecure. To calm my heart, I had been memorizing Romans 8. I sat on the kitchen floor, took Max on my lap, and quoted verses 15-16 to both of us: For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father. The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God.
Then I fed Max one morsel of dry food at a time and told him I understood. I too had been allowing myself to be terrified by groundless and imaginary fears. Like my silly dog, I had forgotten to remember that I’ve been rescued from the evil one and placed in a new family. I’m safe. I’m adopted!
Max did nothing to earn his place in our home. We didn’t ask him to. We saw his need, invited him to be ours, and he accepted our offer. We opened the minivan door; Max hopped in and was rescued.
I had nothing to offer my Savior, for in me there is not a single good thing (Rom. 7:18). But when God said He would save me, I believed Him and accepted His offer. He took my sin, exchanged it for Christ’s righteousness, and I was rescued.
Max did not have to work to preserve his place in our family. That’s a good thing, because he could not do anything useful. He had no clue how to fetch slippers and was too cowardly to catch a burglar. He couldn’t even catch a Frisbee. The only thing Max did well was sit on our laps and let us love him. But that was enough.
Nor do I have to maintain my place in God’s family. Nothing I can do could ever make Him love me more, and nothing will ever cause Him to love me less. He knows what I am capable of, and though I often disappoint Him and hurt his heart, I am His forever. Nobody can snatch me from His hand (John 10:29), and He is not sending me back. The price He paid for me—the blood of Jesus--was too high. God loves me just because He loves me, and that’s enough.
And I love Him, too--so I choose to obey Him rather than my old master Satan. When our neighbor children saw Max outside, they’d call, “Here, Maxie! Here, Maxie! See what we have for you!” Sometimes he’d go because he liked treats, but we never tried to train him to obey their voices, for they weren’t his masters. We were, and we worked to train Max to come when we called. He never did (well, maybe once or twice), but we kept trying.
When the devil calls me, sometimes I am tempted to go, for my flesh wants what he offers. But I don’t have to, for he is not my father. I do not live in his family anymore and do not have to do what he says. I have a new Father Who has made me His child (John 1:12). I listen for His voice and follow Him.
Max had family privileges. There were other dogs in the neighborhood, but only Max could walk in our door without knocking and know he wouldn’t be shooed away. He snoozed on our sofa and ate (the crumbs that fell) from our table. Max even had his own bed, but we let him hop up on ours when it thundered. Max was one of the family. He belonged.
I once was a “stranger and foreigner,” but now I’m a member of “the household of God” (Eph. 2:18-19). I have family privileges like free access to the throne of grace, where I can approach Him confidently to express my love, spill out my fears, and ask for help. His door is always open to me, for I am His beloved child. I eat at His table and rest in His everlasting arms. I call Him my “Abba, Father” (Rom. 8:15), just as Jesus did (Mark 14:36).
Not just that day on the kitchen floor, but over and over, Max was a little object lesson for me, teaching me about myself and my relationship to my Father. When we had to say goodbye a few years later, I thought of these verses in Romans 8: We ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body (Rom. 8:23).
Max couldn’t live forever, but I will. On the day I enter my Father’s heavenly home, my adoption will be complete. Until then, I will relax and enjoy my place in God’s family. I’m safe. I’m adopted!
Claudia Barba is familiar with the demands and joys of the Christian life. Having grown up as a pastor’s daughter, she serves the Lord as the wife of Dave Barba, who has been a pastor, church planter, and itinerant evangelist. They now travel helping to plant new churches and help struggling ones in the USA and on English-speaking mission fields through a ministry they call Press On! Ministries. Claudia is the author of four Bible study books for women and The Monday Morning Club, a book of encouragement for women in ministry. The Barbas have three grown, married children and seven perfect grandchildren.
