As any woman can testify, we can cry over the silliest things. And I’m not just talking about my mother always crying at the end of Pollyanna. (Oh – wait! I do that now, too!) I mean that things bother us. Those things then compound over a certain amount of time, until the dam breaks and the tears flow. Usually over something that may or may not have anything to do with what is actually bothering us. It’s no wonder men find women to be a bit…well, alien.
That happened to me recently. The discussion of purchasing a house of our own has been spoken of, even pursued, and then tabled ever since just before Ethan was born. If 2020 hadn’t been as ridiculous as it was, I think the conversation would have been picked up again over a year ago. As it stands, we waited until 2021 to dust it off yet again. Which, if you know anything about the current housing market, is really bad timing. But this time it hasn’t been so easy to table it. Ed has always wanted our own place. For once, I’m not pushing the subject aside or hearing voices in the back of my head telling me not to go there even while we wander about houses with pink bathrooms or walls of drawers. And there’s Emry. Who brings up having a home of our own at least once every day. Granted, she has some ulterior motives. Mostly she wants a dog and a swing set, but we’ve told her that is not possible until we have a home of our own. But if you ask her, it isn’t just the dog or swing set. And she can’t understand why her prayers are not being answered…a lifelong frustration.
With all this building over the past couple of months, there was one day when we had asked a question of a lender we were in contact with that brought back a negative answer. And I hit my breaking point. I went into the only somewhat private place in the house (the bathroom), shut the door tight, sat down on the floor, and cried. And while, yes, I was crying because at that moment in time it seemed like we would never own a house and live in a tiny rental that really needs work for the rest of our living days...that wasn’t what kept playing over and over again in my head. At that moment I was crying because we would never have our own home and I couldn’t even purchase my small kids a swing set. Because it will mess up the grass. Grass that isn’t ours.
To be honest, that still makes me cry. My kids aren’t going to be small very long. It won’t be too many years before Emry will be too big for a swing set. And if it takes us that long to find our own home? I need to stop there before I start crying again.
Having one’s own home is a very American thing. One I shrugged at growing up. Because we never had one. Well, we did have a few, scattered between the rentals we lived in. Added together, they were nearly as transient as the rentals so it almost didn’t seem like we did own them. In the midst of all that, there were moments when I cursed my pilgrimage wanderings and wondered why my parents couldn’t be “normal” and just find a place to settle down and raise a family. Later, though, I didn’t mind. Think of all the things I got to see! People I got to meet! And, yes, even cultures I experienced. (And if you don’t think America has various cultures, you try living most of your childhood in the South and then moving to New England.) By the time I got married and had a family, I really didn’t know which life I wanted. Did I want my kids to have a home and be able to answer the question, “Where are you from?” without a very awkward hesitation? Or did I want them to experience the variety our nation holds? Honestly, I still don’t know.
On the other hand, I am now 41 years old. And Ed is 46. And at least Emry, and even Ethan, are hitting the ages when friends, and activities, and familiarity are very important pieces of their lives. And more now than ever before, I really want a place to call my own. I place where I don’t worry about the grass (or lack thereof) under the swing set. A place where I will scold Ethan about pulling down the towel rack, but I don’t have to groan over the holes in the drywall. A place where I can actually hang up all my pictures, unpack all my books, store all my stuff, and take the photo albums out of boxes so I can enjoy them and share them with the kids.
But, I will be honest, I don’t know how that is ever going to happen. It seems like every time a light might glimmer at the end of that tunnel, a landslide creates darkness like midnight. Until I lose hope. Until I wonder why I bother to look, research, pray, anything. Until I think maybe being honest with Emry and just telling her she never having a home, a dog, or a swing set is the more likely scenario. And secretly feel like saying her God is great, but her parents are failures.
Several weeks ago, Emry’s passionate plea for a home began again one evening after Bible time. More afraid of breaking down into tears, I prayed for something to tell her besides my despair. And God brought something to my mind. And then another thing. And then another. Memories of the houses I have lived in. Stories of how God brought each of them to us. And even a wondering of what my parents must have felt during some of those very low moments of our lives. I was able to tell Emry one little story of God’s faithfulness, probably more of an encouragement to me than her. But for the moment, it gave her peace and me a glimmer of hope.
Since then, the subject of a home still comes up at least once daily. And my despair is still usually greater than my hope. But Isaiah 46:9 tells us, “Remember the former days of old: for I am God, and there is none else; I am God, and there is none like me.” And, so I am going to remember. At least here in my blog for the next many weeks. For I’ve lived in a lot of houses. And each one has it’s own little (or big) story. Stories to cry over, laugh at, and tell to my kids. Because in their own way, each of them played a role in my growing up. Something my kids will roll their eyes at soon enough, but maybe one day they’ll enjoy the memories.
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