For five years, we built a life outside of Philadelphia while my husband attended seminary. As those years came to a close, I gave birth to our fourth (a boy), my husband graduated, and we put our house on the market. Our church merged with another and our time there came to an end. When asked about next steps, I usually responded with, “We’re not sure! But we’re holding our plans with open hands.” It was a comforting image, and it resonated with me as a transient unsure about the future. I walked through those last few months of summer certain that my palms were face up and empty, and that the Lord would lead us as he pleased.
And so we were led—through a promising opportunity that fizzled out, through a backup opportunity that we second guessed, and finally to a two-year position in the midwestern suburbs, just four and a half hours from the suburbs we had left five years before.
While we knew this was where God wanted us, we also knew this temporary position would have its challenges. We’re not the adventurous types, those who long for variety and shallow roots and the next big thing. We live simple lives. We desire deep roots, the kind planted securely in the soil of a local church body and community. The kind that offers neighbors who know our names and our kids’ favorite colors; the kind that assures our church family that we’ll be here for Christmas next year too; the kind that lets me paint the walls a moody green and put fairy lights in the backyard because this home is ours.
Our two-year commitments to our church and home remind us that change is inevitable, but sometimes I forget.
The other day, I watched my kids play in our picture window—it framed their small bodies as if made for that very purpose. Together, they piled up plastic puppies and paperback books, imagining that some were an island and the others were its people. Laughter pierced through the calm of the morning, threatening to wake the youngest in the other room.
But this isn’t our house. I’d forgotten again. The glass holding the picture in its frame lay in pieces on the sun-soaked floor.
When we first moved to the neighborhood, we had neighbors bring us pumpkin bread, hydrangeas from their gardens, and cards with stick figure pictures of their families (so we could remember their kids’ names). Our older two learned the rules of flashlight tag and I learned the rules of the moms’ group text, where we’d message about impromptu play dates in the park down the street.
My husband and I watched from the picture window as our daughter walked to her friend’s house, and I’m sure we said something like, “I cannot believe we live in a neighborhood like this!” or, “We would have never let her do this back in Philly.” And we probably looked at each other and shook our heads, because “God brought us to the perfect neighborhood” was by that time better left understood than spoken, and the uncertainty of how long we’d be here was always in the back of our minds.
When the days of summer gave way to fall, my daughter discovered Pilgrim’s Progress. Already tucked in for the night, she would rest her chin on the bunkbed’s frame and lay quiet, as if moving might disturb her enchantment. In this way, the lull of Christian’s story exhausted the margins of bedtime.
Christian set out from the City of Destruction toward the Celestial City. His pilgrimage sometimes threatened, sometimes encouraged the seed of faith he brought with him. When he longed to turn back, a room called “Peace” promised rest and restoration: “Where am I now? Is this the love and care of Jesus for the men that pilgrims are? Thus to provide! that I should be forgiven! And dwell already the next door to Heaven!” He only stayed one night, but it was enough for revival.
“Is the Celestial City real?” My daughter wondered one night. Pausing, she answered her own question: “I think it is.”
Outside our picture window, fall soon gave way to winter. In the early mornings, streetlights exposed specks of snow that patiently buried the sidewalk, the lawn, the porch swing. Tracks covered the yard as neighbors traveling to and from the elementary school used it for soccer practice and snow forts.
Reminders that this was not our home grew fuzzy, buried under the snowy footprints of neighbors and new friends. But spring soon roused our sleepy memories.
As the decision of where to go next looms over us once again, my palms feel light, emptied by a sovereign hand much surer than my own. My future is unsure, but not to him. My eyes strain to see through the darkness ahead, but even the darkness is as light to him.
The temporality of our home sometimes threatens, sometimes encourages the seed of faith I’ve brought with me. When I long to turn back, my God called “Peace” promises rest and restoration. Can I really believe that even in my not knowing, that God knows? Can I really trust that regardless of what the future holds for me—for my family—that he will be there? A roar of steadiness and familiarity drowns out the murmurs of my uncertainty: it’s just enough for revival.
Featured image by jcomp.
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