We’re selling our home. In our next (major) step on this I’m-not-going-back-to-corporate-America adventure faith walk, we are embracing the one income challenge and downsizing. Not just downsizing, but renting even. 100% debt free. Woohoo!
That may sound all fab and fancy and all that, but in reality, it’s been a bear… excusing myself from using the other b word that would have more adequately described my disposition…
This process of letting go of my home has been something akin to wrenching and twisting and scraping the skin off my arms and face and body, if I had to describe the emotional by the physical.
What has been so hard about it?
I put everything into that home. My heart and soul when I painted my son’s room in earthy browns and greens and blues to reflect his homeland of Ethiopia, and my daughter’s room in vibrant swirls of primary red, blue, and teal to splash her artist’s heart on the wall, and my other daughter’s room in lime and periwinkle with a bold strip of black cutting them through the center to show both her soft and daring sides. I put my time and energy into that home, preparing it for the teen years with the goal of our house being the hang-out place, by investing in a pool table, an air hockey table, and an entertainment area in the basement all leading out to a swimming pool out back. I put my love of labor and quality into that home by hand-staining the deck and fashioning hand-made curtains and planting an indescribable number of shrubs and flowering plants of all variations of color and size so that something beautiful was blooming all year round.
*De-personalizing my daughter’s room for sale was very difficult
But what did I really put into that home that has made it so hard to leave?
I put my faith in that home; faith that if I made a good home, my kids would be ok. Faith that if I made a stable home by hunkering down and staying for the long haul, my kids would be ok. Faith that if the home was good, the kids were good.
The good news is, I made a good home. I made a stable home. It’s just not tied up in the house we live in.
I’m reminded of the time a very good friend of mine told me that Christianity is a crutch. What I’ve discovered is that in reality, my house is a crutch. And Christ has been wrenching and twisting and scraping it out from under my arm for a year and a half now. He has gently but persistently showed me that He is my home, my stability, my rock. Since He goes everywhere I go, that means I’m always home. And since I go everywhere He leads, that means leaving my house behind.
And that means my kids are going to be fine, good even. Because home is where we are, where He is, wherever that is.
And behind all the rubble and tears and the wake of what felt like a disaster in leaving my house, I see the Lord working in His most amazing and mysterious ways. I feel the pinpoint of light of renewal coming upon me – I feel the first beats of my drifter-vagabond’s heart starting to awaken again. He knows who I am. And I can’t wait to see where He takes us and in what house we will settle our home.