If you haven't read the first post in this series, will you do so?
Continuing our story of God's faithfulness, I hesitate. What if you, reader, don't see past me? I agonize that you might hear me shouting, "Look at me!" when I am begging you, "Look past me!" I write because I burn...because I know that this is not my story, but His. May I remind you, friend, that I am the girl that was least likely to ever leave my home? My journey across continents and oceans and back...home, well, that only points to Him. See His threads in this tapestry and the next chapter...
Once we realized that we were indeed headed to Africa and at least one more child was joining our family, we knew that we had to do something about our home. Home, sweet home, it has been. Its hundred years of history and river views and honeyed floors had been our dream home. But...our postage stamp yard wasn't keeping the soccer ball out of the neighbor's flowers, and we couldn't keep the boys out of the neighbors' trees, and I was dreaming of a garden that fit more than one gardener, and then...a friend offered us land. It was an incredible offer, and we began to dream as we trudged through the woods and wondered about sunlight and shadows and started drawing house plans. We hustled to ready our home to go on the market before we boarded the plane for Ethiopia, and we returned from Ethiopia to our dream house finalized on paper, each elevation carefully penciled by my father and waiting on his drafting table for our approval.
We have been home for four months, and I have yet to look through those finalized house plans.
I could not make decisions about flooring and bathroom hardware and light fixtures while holding in my arms the reminder of a continent that was so desperately needy. I wept...a lot in those first weeks home. I wondered how to do this new normal, how to live with what we had experienced in Ethiopia, what we had seen, heard. We knew that the house on paper was not our home, not His plan. But what was?
It happened slowly yet all at once, heart conversations with my family...and then my parents were sharing their desire to downsize from the 1,600 square foot home that they had built with hands and hearts over 25 years ago. My parents' hearts had been moved, and their lives changed so ours could change. We were standing in the home that had been mine in childhood, looking out over the porch where we had been married and suddenly realized this was it. We were going to live here.
We have some hurdles yet. Our house has yet to sell, but our evenings and weekends are filled with work on the 800 square foot cottage for my parents that will often be filled with grandchildren and will overlook the garden that we will plant together and harvest together. My children will learn to avoid that creaky board in what was once my room with stenciled hearts on the walls, and they will go to sleep in summer with a chorus of bullfrogs at the window. Their growing up years will be much like mine, but then, I realize I don't think they will be at all like mine. They are talking of African wells and hungry children and filling shoe boxes for those that don't know the Good News, and their passports, Lord willing, will have stamps in them much sooner in life than mine did.
By God's grace in this move, we will be able to give and serve in ways we have never been able to before... I am keenly aware of how this could sound, but will you hear the tremor in my voice, as I wonder at this gift? Can you hear both the awe and fear at the responsibility that will come with this new lifestyle? Financial freedom means that we will have new choices to make about how we live and how we give. We don't know exactly what these new days will hold, but I pray that you will see in His story, not mine, perhaps a different chapter for your story? Keep seeking, as He promises to be found.