Home when you have none (OR The place you can rest)

When I was 18 months old, our little family of three flew back to Nigeria after a few weeks in England. Flights were overbooked, we were bumped and rerouted, and eventually we wound up, exhausted, at the Cozy Inn in Accra, Ghana. There were no curtains on the windows, and no cold water in the taps. The bed was made with a single sheet tucked tightly overtop the single blanket. But when my mother put me in the middle of the large bed, hopefully out of reach of the cockroaches, I closed my eyes and said with what might have been a sigh of relief or contentment, “ ’ome.” Home, for me, was the place I could rest.
Since then, I’ve called many places home, including a mud-brick house without electricity or running water in a little mountain village in Afghanistan, and, most recently, a high-end condo in Vancouver with swimming pool and fitness room and plentiful running water (both hot and cold) included in the rent. For a long time, I felt I didn’t belong here; my landlady needed a good tenant more than she needed the rent that it was worth. Lately, I’d started to believe that maybe, by some miracle of grace, I did belong here; I increasingly know and am known by name, and have been having meals and deep conversations with neighbors. My presence here seemed to matter. And then this week, I received The Email, “We have decided to move forward with selling the condo and will transfer ownership in February 2018. As such, I’m sorry to tell you we need to end your tenancy on Jan 31, 2018, as the new owner will be moving in shortly thereafter.”
I needed to reread the email several times over the next couple of days to be sure I hadn’t dreamt it. There’s something distinctly unsettling about being kicked out of the place you’ve learned, over almost six years, to call home.
There’s grief in leaving this place.
This oven, which has cooked Hawaiian pizzas and chicken and sweet potato fries to share with good friends.
This bedroom where I learned to dance my prayers because my body needed some way of praying my joy and grief and longing.
This living room where I’ve found myself again and again on holy ground as I listen with people to their stories and together we notice where God is in them.
This window through which I’ve watched fireworks enough times that I no longer startle (at least not as badly) when they sound like incoming rockets.
Here, through beautiful times and some excruciatingly painful ones, I have learned a little more deeply that God is good, and I can trust him. That doesn’t mean I always do trust. In the days after receiving The Email, I was short of breath with anxiety. But I threw myself on God anyway, knowing that He welcomes me as I am and doesn’t ask that I fix myself before running to His arms. That’s something else I’ve learned here: there’s one kind of trust in a child who isn’t afraid to play with a puppy. There’s another kind in a child who, fearing the puppy, runs to the safe arms of her daddy. Sometimes I’m that first little girl. More often, I’m the second.
There’s grief in having to leave, but I know there’s gift too. Most of the gift will probably take time for me to recognize as gift, but this piece I can already see: here in this place where my home is being pulled out from under me, I am learning all over again, and more deeply, that God is my true home. That might sound like a stale Sunday School answer. And if it weren’t that I have no idea where I’ll be living in two and a half months’ time, it might feel like one. But home for me is still the place I can rest, and in the moments when the uncertainty of not knowing where I’ll sleep raises panic in me and I run crying into the arms of my Abba, I discover that once again I can be that trusting toddler snuggling in and whispering, “ ‘ome.”

“I’ve loved you the way my Father has loved me. Make yourselves at home in my love.” (John 15:9 The Message)


This Post Has 9 Comments

  1. kathrynmevansgmailcom

    This brings me back to our 3 years at Regent moving 4 times with babies. 4 months housesitting, 8 months in a condo like you live in, a letter when I was about to give birth from our landlords they were selling the place, 1 year in family housing before they tore the building down and a final year and a half in other family housing right before the university tore those buildings down. Then 3 years in Shanghai with the worst landlord we’ve ever had, a year a half in Vermont at a dreamy farmhouse. We just bought our first home this year and as the snow falls in big clumps outside the living window I’m absolutely reminded that we have home because we have Jesus. Looking back I’m a bit overwhelmed by the journey of so many transitions, but grateful that God was with us through each one. You do have a home in him.

    1. hearingtheheartbeat

      Thanks for sharing this bit of your story, Kathryn. It’s always encouraging to hear how God has been faithful in the lives of others!

  2. Don Johns

    I can relate to your feelings a bit. I lived in the Willenson’s basement while they lived in Vancouver. When they moved I had to move out but God provided a unique place in a horse pasture for my last semester at Regent. All very minor compared to your many years. But I will pray God surprises you in a similar way.

  3. Elaine Erb

    Praying for you my dear Carolyn.

  4. Lorina Meade

    Ah Karen, I’m so sorry. I’m just imagining the grief and disorientation you must be feeling!! I’m
    touched by the beautiful story from your early life that you’re referring back to now. I’ll be thinking of you in all that lies ahead for you in the next few months and trusting with you that there will be gifts to discover along the way.

  5. Bonita Dirk

    Hi Carolyn,
    I’m sooooo sorry you have to move! That is/ was a beautiful home!!!! I hope the Lord will provide something even better that you couldn’t imagine.
    I can certainly relate to the anxiety of the unknown. Do you have any leads on new options? I will be praying for you during this transition!
    On Mon, Nov 20, 2017 at 8:47 PM, Hearing The Heartbeat wrote:
    > hearingtheheartbeat posted: ” When I was 18 months old, our little family > of three flew back to Nigeria after a few weeks in England. Flights were > overbooked, we were bumped and rerouted, and eventually we wound up, > exhausted, at the Cozy Inn in Accra, Ghana. There were no curtain” >

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