Proof The Bible Is True

My family moves a lot. We’ve lived in 10 different houses in the last 19 years. My husband Mike’s career had taken us from Puerto Rico to Pennsylvania, and to our newest home near San Antonio, Texas, to name only a few of our stops. I have relocating down to a science, with garage sales before and after each move, letting go of anything that isn’t practical. Even so, with each house, there’s an adjustment period, a time for settling in and hoping the place will feel like home. Reality can be cause for second-guessing.

 

That was the case two moves ago, to a house in New Hope, Pennsylvania. With our many addresses, I wondered if God even knew where to find me anymore. I was having trouble reaching him to get some direction.

 

I’d had my heart set on living in New Hope, an artsy, cute-as-a-button town of only 2,500 people on the banks of the Delaware River, not far from where Washington made his famous crossing. There weren’t many houses for sale in the area, and none seemed suited to raising a family.

 

“I have one more house,” our real estate agent said. “Two stories and a basement. But it needs some work.” We went to check it out.

 

On first sight, I could see that this was a house with “good bones.” Mike agreed. The structure was sturdy and reliable, built to last, with real care and attention to detail. I loved how the kids’ bedrooms were across the hall from the spacious master bedroom, upstairs. I imagined tucking our two children into their beds and padding right across the hall to sleep soundly, within earshot of a call for Mommy in the night. The huge basement would be perfect for a comfy couch and the television, a place where we could all hang out together.

 

Sure, the carpet needed replacing; the walls begged for a fresh coat of paint. I considered the dated kitchen with its green Formica counter. The unfinished basement. But none of that mattered to me. I focused on the hand-drawn growth chart on the pantry door. Its measurements were faded, as though the owners had begun the process of erasing it but couldn’t quite bring themselves to complete the task. I imagined measuring our own kids, Olivia, 13, and Evan, 10, against the same door. The thought alone made me teary-eyed. I imagined the home-cooked meals I would make in the quaint kitchen, all of us sitting down for family dinner in the comfortable dining room.

 

I weighed the fixer-upper against the other options and lobbied for us to choose “the house with good bones.” We bought it. It didn’t take long for reality to set in.

 

Read More: She Prayed for Guidance After a Difficult Move | Guideposts