It wasn’t what we had in mind—this 1914 house with one bathroom on a busy street but far from everything.
But it was what the Lord provided. Back when we heard His voice that it was time to come to this new state, we’d obeyed and sold our current home, then found ourselves weeks away from having nowhere to live.
Back before the market soared, we didn’t know it then, but by finding this house, we’d barely squeaked into the state we’d long been dreaming of.
Back when we couldn’t make it to a showing in person, so we viewed the home over FaceTime, having good faith that all would be well.
Back when my husband went to the inspection . . . “The kids will love the backyard,” he said—and he was right.
But he didn’t say anything about the inside.
I was in for a bit of a shock when I saw it in person, the day before signing the papers. How can we make this place home? I wondered as I wandered the tiny halls. And cried a few tears.
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I’ve moaned and groaned—sometimes internally, sometimes verbally—about the things I don’t love about this house. Yet you, dear children, have made it your castle.
I don’t love the way the front porch faces a main street. I’d love to hear the wind blowing through wheat fields or cattle mooing, yet I hear sirens and loud engine noises instead. But you simply spread out your LEGOs and declare that front porch heaven.
I don’t love the way the main pipe burst, and the kitchen sink and basement flooded. All I wanted was to nurse the baby in peace (and have a working dishwasher), but instead, we had strange workers traipsing in and out for weeks. Yet you, dear children, made a game of it when we took our dishes outside to wash with the hose.
I don’t love the one bathroom–have I mentioned there’s only one bathroom? For six people? Yet, it means I can hear you singing in the shower from my spot on the couch where I’m writing.
I don’t love the plethora of trees in the backyard and the mess they make.
Yet, you’ve gone and built a play-town under their shade. I don’t love all the ornamental bushes and the time and work it takes to dig them out so we can garden. But there’s a swing in the backyard where we took our family pictures—that I’ll never forget.
I didn’t love the way the previous owners smoked (and smoked, and smoked, and smoked) inside. But you, dear children, loved camping outside while the house was being cleaned, and you loved picking out new paint colors for your rooms. Now, if I mention moving, you cry out, “But we chose the perfect paint for this house!”
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I don’t love the slanting floor of the back porch (have you noticed how floors don’t always settle evenly in old houses?). Yet the kittens were born there. Now, when I step outside, I hear them mewing and I see you, cuddling them.
I don’t really love the distance we have to travel to get to church or the store. Yet you, dear children, have taken to bringing books to read to each other while I drive.
When we first came here, I kept my eyes open for for-sale signs in areas we like better. Now, if I had to give up this old house and the memories it keeps, I don’t know if I could do it.
I don’t always love this old house. But I love you. And that’s enough.