Some people, during the isolation phase of the pandemic, have accomplished considerable worthwhile things. Friends have painted the entire inside of their homes. Some have made quilts or scrapbooks for each child. My best friend performed a long mission of mercy for her critically ill mother. Others have cleaned out their workshops, purged their basements, memorized huge chunks of scripture, learned a new instrument.
The Preacher and I, deeply preoccupied with our personal real estate matters, have also not been idle.
It鈥檚 gotta be some kind of miracle, I said to someone鈥攖o a few someones鈥攔ecently. Must be some kind of miracle, to sell a little old house in a tiny village with dirt roads and not a single convenience, in the middle of a pandemic and the worst economic downturn in almost a century. That has to be God.
Lord, I prayed earlier this year, if it鈥檚 okay with you (and you know we鈥檙e headed in the 鈥樷�榤ovin鈥� on鈥� direction and there鈥檚 no turning back) I鈥檇 like to be out of here before the lilacs bloom. Because if I鈥檓 still here when those tiny spears, thrusting so eagerly skyward, burst open (white, pink, lavender and deep purple); when the air on the grounds of Hope House is filled with fragrance and birdsong and butterflies鈥攊f I鈥檓 still here, standing in the middle of the backyard, gobsmacked with my annual case of fresh wonder and amazement at God鈥檚 incredible gift of creation, they鈥檒l have to take me away by force.
Our late 1970s bungalow crept quietly onto the mid-pandemic market. Less than two weeks later, just as quietly, interested buyers, having braved a house tour wearing masks and gloves, made an offer. We countered, they countered, and we all agreed. A few more papers to sign, conversations to have, and Hope House could be sold (and us out) in a matter of weeks - just before lilac season. 聽
We鈥檝e been moving gradually for months; now comes the inevitable crunch. The garage at the new place is packed high with what won鈥檛 fit inside (clearly, we have more to learn regarding the true meaning of downsizing); the garage at Hope House is full of possessions that didn鈥檛 make the cut and will be (somehow) dispensed. The pets have already moved. So have the Preacher and I, except for going back and forth to pack and haul and spend nights at the old place when necessary.
A small wooden sign sits over the new kitchen sink. Grateful, it says, in handwritten script. Every time I wash dishes, it reminds me how much we have to be grateful for. When our strength evaporated, God provided more. When we needed helpers, they showed up. When we felt all alone, someone called. When I didn鈥檛 think I could juggle another task, either at work or home, friends prayed and the balls stayed up. And when hope for tomorrow dimmed, God provided that too.
鈥淛esus never fails,鈥� read the wall plaque over my parents鈥� bed. The more time passes, the more I know that鈥檚 true. Even during a pandemic.
