Trying on Houses

It seems like a hundred years ago, but it was actually more like 15. A young couple with 90s hair and not a care in the world was looking for a house. They checked out three or four, stumbled on the ideal location, decided they could live with the house, and made an offer.

That was us, back in 1997. (Why is it that any date beginning with “19” truly does feel like a millennium ago?) Shopping for a house was like shopping for a new sweater. If it looked like it fit, you quickly tried it on, liked it, and moved toward the cash register.

It was a bit more complicated the second time. Not only were we joined by a snoopy two-year-old, who didn’t necessarily understand that he couldn’t help himself to whatever he found in the pantry of the house we were viewing, but I was hauling around the twenty-pound bowling ball that was Addison in my belly. My sense of urgency grew along with my tummy, until we again found a great location and a house we could live with and headed again to the cash register. Would have been nice to know the house had once been condemned due to a questionable foundation, but who has time for such details when a baby’s on the way? We moved in September 5, 2001, watched the horrors of 9/11 unfold on boxes from our otherwise desolate living room floor, and brought our new baby home a few weeks later.

Now we’re beginning our search for our third house, and everything’s changed. Again, the sweater analogy is helpful. Picture a harried mother and her four children packed into the Kohl’s dressing room. A couple kids are griping about how bored they are, a couple others are punching each other, mom is sweating, sweaters are flying across the room, buttons popping off. The store should just be thankful if they make it out without leaving a trail of blood behind, nevermind the mess.

And so it was, after we visited the first house this time around, four kids in tow, our realtor ended up getting an angry call about the beds being messed up with a couple of little-girl coats left behind. But the pets were all alive, right? C’mon, people. Cut us some slack.

The bigger deal is helping the kids not become too emotionally attached to the houses. No wait, the bigger deal is ME not getting too emotionally attached. And at this point, 20 months into living with no bathtub, I can even get attached to the 1960s house with the pink tub and the orange shag carpet. The kids actually got into a fight at that house over who got which room, that’s how easily we can see ourselves somewhere else.

Patience, patience. Not my strong suit when trying on sweaters or houses. But as this might be the house out of which they haul my dead body in 45 years, it’s a quality I’ll need in great measure during this pursuit.

Yield!

Since I started spending a good percentage of my waking hours on the highway, I’ve implemented a new driving strategy. Merging into highway traffic has never been a favorite maneuver of mine, and when the rare driver slows down to make a place for me, it doesn’t just make for an easier merge, it actually brightens my day. So I started being intentional about slowing down to let other drivers in—on the highway, exiting a parking lot, wherever I see an opportunity. Yielding, this is called.

Isn’t it funny how God sometimes prepares you for a lesson before actually teaching it to you?

We discussed yielding this week in Bible study. Not the highway kind but the heart kind. One of the best definitions I found described yielding as “giving up one’s place for another.” Jesus’ teachings are all radically counter-cultural, but this one just might take the cake. When does our society ever reward the act of stepping aside for the promotion of another? Stepping out of the limelight so that another might shine? I’m pretty sure this message was not part of my formative years. I used to be a sprinter, and I fought with every muscle and every ounce of will power to keep others from passing me up. I’m not one who likes to be slowed down in any area of life, and stepping aside for someone else comes about as naturally for me as taking a shower with all my clothes on.

Am I doing any better teaching my kids this? Truly, I don’t think I’ve given it a thought before now. I harp endlessly about serving others, but sometimes our greatest act of service is when we do nothing but step aside. Quietly. Without drawing attention to ourselves. Can they let someone else deliver the birthday card? Let someone else take their turn first? Let someone else do the singing on center stage or make the winning basket? And can they do this—here’s the clincher—with a joyful heart and without jealousy? Can I?

On the cross, Jesus “yielded” his spirit. He surrendered to the will of his Father. He put aside his status as Lord of the universe and made a place for sinners like me—a place in heaven. Kinda gives you a whole different mental picture as you’re yielding on the highway, doesn’t it?

A Night to Be Humbled

I don’t normally feel hypocritical. I especially don’t feel hypocritical when I’m praising God. Even when I’m not feeling it, I can still push the words out of my mouth, carry a (mostly) pretty tune, and somehow feel good about myself. Not tonight. Tonight I was too humbled to sing. I’m pretty sure that’s a first.

I was sitting in a women’s event at church alongside many who are the mothers of special needs kids. When I saw the ad in our church bulletin for this particular topic, raising disabled kids, I thought, “There’s one I don’t need to go to.” Then I found out my dear friend was speaking. Jill could speak on eyeball dissections and I would go.

It’s not like I haven’t heard her story of having a baby with Down Syndrome before, but somehow it was different this time. Maybe it was the context. The uncomfortable, random cries that came from the back of the room (this was a place these mothers could bring their special needs kids, after all). The dad cradling his 11-year-old—smaller than my 4-year-old and a child I would be scared to even touch—and calling her his princess. The woman who’s cared for more than 200 foster kids, many of them with special needs, and is now tending to her husband with Alzheimer’s. I was humbled by their stories. Leveled, actually. To the point where I couldn’t even sing the words, “Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus” without feeling unworthy, hypocritical.

I consider myself a person of strong faith. Driving to the meeting tonight, I would have given myself a 9 out of 10 on the faith scale. I intentionally try to live each day with open hands, praying that God’s will and not mine be done. I don’t live in fear. I don’t feel an urgent need to control things. I have called this faith. But driving home, my number dropped to a 1. I didn’t lose faith this evening; I just realized how little faith my life has required. I’ve had losses and grief, but they’ve come and gone. I can’t think of anything I’ve had to trust God for over the course of a lifetime. I can picture all of my birdies not only flying out of my little nest some day, but soaring to heights I’ve never reached. I’m not wondering who will care for one of them when I die. I’m not wondering how we’ll ever have the money to fill in the gaps insurance won’t cover. Yes, I am humbled.

And then of course the mind goes to all sorts of dark places. “Why didn’t you choose this road for me, God? Was I too weak? Did I lack the faith? Could I not have handled it?” And then a step further: “Maybe this is our path. What if we’re just one freak rollerblading accident away from a life like this?”

But that is not where my mind stays. I won’t let it. Those thoughts, along with a false sense of unworthiness, only keep me focused on myself and distract me from what God's trying to teach me. All I can know is what He has chosen for me today, and all I can do is love the people who are walking that road, give thanks for what He has chosen for me, and have the good sense not to resist this lesson in humility.