BOTH WAYS

We were certain. Not that He wanted the house for us. But that we wanted it for ourselves.

 _____________________ 

It was the porch swing. And the way the light poured in from the rain-soaked window, reflecting on the aged fir floor like tiny glistening orbs.

Love at first site would not be accurate. My affection for this place was born more of an eagerness to get to know it, as a person might lay in bed at night and contemplate a successful first date.

Just now I am wondering why our Creator allows us to become captivated by something longed for, but not ours to keep.

This was a week of wanting and not getting. Of questioning—

Did we misunderstand His intention?

Was the lesson in the unwanted outcome itself?

Did we start the hunt too early?

Was this some unexpected test of faith?

This is where I turn to the questions surrounding how to talk to God so that He listens.

Then comes the profound recognition that as with any intimate relationship, the conversation goes both ways.

I am not a stranger to my Creator. When I speak, He recognizes my voice. But here’s the revelation that unfolds in the middle of this “not getting” story—I recognize His voice too.

He is not absent in my wantings. He is, in fact, the author of every good thing I crave.

And what I crave is Home, above nearly every other thing.

My definition [of home] is a kindred belonging.

Though my heart is fixed on this concrete expression,

I am mindful that its manifestation comes in many different ways.

Enter in the clarifying constancy of His voice—

A sensory experience more pervasive than something simply ‘heard.’

Unconfined by the limitations of a simple “yes” or “no,”

Unrestricted by whether or not I choose my words just so.

When I focus on what I bring to the conversation, I will nearly always feel as if I didn’t get it right. “If I had only said it this way…” how often do we believe the outcome could have been different somehow?

Have you ever wondered if we are missing the real conversation entirely?

Have you contemplated that His is not ‘response’ or answers given, but a prompting to ask the fresh and unexpected questions instead?

This cottage, with its enchanting leaded window where the light shines in, is not the full picture but a brushstroke in the grander masterpiece that is my life—

He saturates our experience with choices.

Honing our awareness of what our soul yearns for.

Until we begin to recognize his voice in every important or seemingly insignificant thing.

His is not a journey of giving and taking but of full-immersion in one moment and then the next. Until we sense his presence without conscious awareness. Until his whispers are as near as breath. Until we are awakened to the recognition of his presence in every beautiful thing.

If we believe that God is covert, we would be terribly wrong. He is an in-your-face reviver of the heart’s desire. The conductor of our heart song. And when He has something for us, nothing can stand in his way.

His is not the delight in the answer…but in its preparation.

Believe He is preparing a way.

And in the in-between time, look for him in every extraordinary moment.

He is embedded there.

NOTES:

This week I found myself wondering if I am missing something. Giving my whole heart to something not realized is just so hard. Not so much because of the loss, but because of the misunderstanding that what I wanted, my Creator wanted too.

When I’m unsure of whether I’m hearing his voice, I remind myself of precisely how he speaks to me:

I believe, like any intimate friendship, his language, his lexicon, is distinct to my relationship with him and to the interests we share.

My favorite story of our “love language” revolves around [of course] one of our twenty-three homes—

Ron and I had only recently married, and we were searching throughout San Diego for a home we could afford. Discovering through the process that we are both pioneers-of-sorts, we ended up in in an area that is now considered one of the “hippest” places to live. But on that day we came upon the 1906 bungalow, the area was “undesirable” to say the least.

Despite the obvious neglect of the surrounding houses and the questionable safety of the neighborhood, we were enraptured with the possibilities that only a can-do and undaunted spirit could perceive.

The Bungalow, as we dubbed it, had been owned by the same family for two generations. To say that the seventy-year-old- daughter/owner was particular about her childhood home would not come close to describing her overly protective approach. Knowing she needed to satisfy the family estate with a strong offer, we cobbled together everything we had. In the end we were told they would be entering into escrow with another family instead.

 We. Were. Crestfallen. Over the next fourteen days we deeply grieved the loss of not only what we had believed was to be our “first home” but the opportunity to renovate one of San Diego’s historic homes.

I was working at the Clinique counter at Bullock’s Department store one afternoon when everything about my life changed. Noting my place of employment on our offer, the owner of the bungalow drove her 1966 Buick to Mission Valley, navigated through the men’s department until she came upon me, my head down, arranging lipsticks and foundation in the glass case.

I remember feeling my arms tingle before looking up to find her standing directly in front of me. With an audible gasp I managed a curious, “Hello.” Without hesitation she looked into my eyes and then into my soul, then stated with only a little obvious emotion, “We want YOU to have our house.”

 I’m surprised that just now big tears are running down my face.

Perhaps it is the memory that has brought about a bit of nostalgia.

But I believe, as I write, my Creator is once again reminding me of our love language—

How he has created me/us for transformation,

How he understood before I did that I was meant to make “transformation” my career,

How he put room between the initial desire and the outcome to allow me to “be sure,”

How he orchestrated so many not-so-little details to launch a lifetime of bringing beauty to other people’s lives.

As I think back on this first of many sanctuaries, I believe God knew He could trust us with the difficult assignment He had in mind—

For six months we spent every available hour scraping decades of paint until breathtaking wood moldings were revealed. We ate pizza from boxes laid out on the filthy floor while we peeled seven layers of wallpaper from framing stuffed with newspapers displaying turn of the century headlines. And when we were sufficiently covered with plaster we would shower under the hose, the only working bathroom we had at the time.

Our two-way conversation leaves me breathless from the lessons He never fails to reveal. Life is hard. And beautiful. Not separated like these two sentences. But breathtakingly intertwined.