The Preacher and I raised our two children in parsonages provided by God and the churches we served. We called each house home and filled them all with love, delight, chaos and havoc. (Of the best kind, usually. I'll save the day I almost set fire to one for another column.)
Precisely four years ago, after sixteen years of serving the same congregation, a mosquito bit the Preacher and infected him with West Nile neurological disease. The virus attacked like a band of pirates, paralyzing him in three limbs, ushering him into hospital and out of ministry.
After the Preacher's six-month hospital stay, I began packing up the parsonage to move to temporary accessible housing across town. I first moved the Preacher himself, still using wheelchair and walker, and unable to help much.
On the day the Preacher read his parting letter to our congregation, a parishioner patted me on the shoulder. "It will be all right," she said. Easy for you to say, I thought. The tearing felt both sudden and savage. Losses piled up like a pile of bleached bones.
On one of my last days of packing, something joined me in the brick-fronted house God had allowed us to call home: a wall of grief.
I wandered through each room, wailing like a moonstruck coyote, re-living sixteen years of family life: Our children sprawled on the floor, tussling with pets. An Indian guest cooking curry in the kitchen. Our nine-foot table set for Christmas, surrounded by family and parishioners. A soaped-up pup in the tub. Teen musicians jamming around the piano. A wedding dress spread on our daughter's bed.
Memories advanced like flashes from a strobe.
I finally slumped against a living room wall, one I'd painted myself to look like aged plaster, and wondered what would become of us. I had faith that God knew, but I wanted to know too. He stayed mostly silent-except for this Bible verse: "I will lead you by a straight road to a place where you can dwell."
For the next year and a half, as the local housing market spiraled to an all-time high, and I, to an all-time low, I hunted houses for eighty miles around. "Lord, I don't have a clue what I'm doing," I said. "If I'm about to walk through the wrong door, just slam it in my face." Each time an offer got rejected, I remembered that prayer, and said a prayer of thanks.
Just when hopelessness threatened, I walked through a door that stayed open. A perfect-for-our-needs house in a tiny community with the Biblical name "Ebenezer"-a reminder of God's help. Fifteen kilometers down a straight highway.
We call our home Hope House. Sometimes we invite people over for conversation and meals. If they're in need of hope, we tell them our story, and remind them that God is trustworthy. Some tell us they take hope away with them.
Life is, indeed, all right. No matter your situation, keep hope.
