Fingerprinted walls and long gray winters closed in on this young mom's mind. Our apartment, narrow and not too long, sat atop our shop in an aged building at the edge of town. Piles of clutter competed for attention with runny noses and household repairs. I liked the building, really I did, for its bit of a view and proximity to work, but the more children we tried to cram into it, the smaller it apparently got.
The latest little arrival prompted a search for larger lodging. We scoured papers and studied websites, yet every lead turned out just wrong, with money often the limiting factor. Meanwhile, the children were growing in more than just numbers, and a place for them to meet with friends at home was becoming essential.
Lamenting to my single friend about our house-hunting saga, I was miffed when she breezed, “Just give it to God.” The long gray ponytail on her shoulder seemed to delineate the gulf between her life and mine. What did she know of my pressures? Yet she spoke from her own struggles, I knew, and her words resonated to a younger me. Was this a trust issue? Accepting her offer to pray, I relinquished my fretting.
The next day I tripped onto a house for sale, spacious and well-lit, that would accommodate our family, store and budget. How we had missed it until then is a mystery. Perhaps we were not given eyes to see until my heart was prepared to receive it as a gift.
