We stood in awed silence, surrounded by frozen north woods beauty, our breath shimmering in the winter morning sunlight. We had crunched our way over bridges and up and down trails through the snow, trying to get a feel for the land we were standing on. It felt as if each step took us deeper into an expanse of sparkling promise.
Scott, our close friend and realtor, looked at me and Brian with a huge grin. “What do you guys think?”
Brian and I looked at each other and laughed.
Earlier we’d toured the house, and from the time we opened the front door to when we walked back outside, I felt like I was holding my breath. It was gorgeous, a little bit strange, and full of potential. Between the land and the house, every box on our dream house wish list was checked.
But we’d just been told by our bank that we couldn’t qualify for a home loan. For two years.
Also: this place was almost $100,000 out of our price range.
We’d only toured the house on a lark. I expected to be impressed, to get ideas. I never expected to find home.
*
Three months earlier Brian and I had made the official move three hours north. We traded two well-paying careers, our community, and our self-made security for a 7-week-old baby, a trailer full of our earthly possessions, and sheer uncertainty.
In a lot of ways we felt like Abraham and Sarah: nomads with pockets full of promises and no idea what we’d actually said yes to. Yet clinging with a reckless trust to the Promise Maker.
*
After Scott dropped us off at our temporary residence, I told Brian that there was a stirring in my heart as we stood on that frozen land. I could feel it in my bones that we were supposed to raise our family in that house. That we would launch our retreat center on that property.
Brian nodded and looked at me thoughtfully. “Well, you know what we need to do.”
We laid our dreams on the alter, and we prayed that the desires of our hearts would match God’s plans and desires for us.
In the days that followed, the engine on Brian’s car seized up while he was on the freeway. We got caught in a fight between our insurance and the dealership warranty people. We both got sick, Brian missed work, the baby refused sleep even more than normal.
I was deep in the throes of post-partum depression, struggling to feel connected to this miracle child I had been longing for. We were stranded in a semi-foreign land where we knew almost no one and had almost no support. Brian, an introvert with years of desk job experience, was beginning to question if he was really cut out for bantering with people for 10+ hours on his feet each day. We’d been homeless for a year, and we were tired of living out of boxes.
Then we got word that someone put in a very good offer on the dream house we couldn’t afford.
We were so sure we were building this new life with bricks and mortar, but it was crumbling like a dried out sandcastle.
*
I used to think of the Promised Land as a place of personal luxury and ease. An oasis after wandering in the desert; a haven where I wouldn’t have to cook and clean.
Yes; I know. I was waaaaaaaaay off.
The thing is, we were never promised amenities. We were never promised easy. We were actually promised trouble (see John 16:33). But also: peace. That we’d never be left or forsaken. That the rivers wouldn’t sweep us away and that the fires wouldn’t consume us.
*
Even as life felt like it was crumbling and the shine of adventure was wearing off, things began to happen.
A local bank agreed to work with us. They drew up a loan with good terms and a great rate. We reached out to the seller, explaining our vision for the house and land, and we put together a crazy offer—well below the asking price.
And we kept praying with open hands that His will would be done. That His Kingdom would come.
A week or so later, our offer was accepted.
A month after that, we moved in.
*
During one of the nicer evenings last week, I grabbed a small glass of scotch, slipped on my mud boots, and walked out to one of our streams. The reality of life with two small children with special needs is that even the good days are hard. And these were not good days. Full of anger and tears and confusion and bewilderment and frustration and exhaustion and defeat.
I sat down, dangling my legs off the side of the bridge and soaking in the sounds of rushing water, the early chorus of crickets and frogs. The sun was setting behind me, giving everything a golden glow. I breathed in the crisp spring air and smell of cedars.
I never dreamed our Promised Land would be so breathtaking. So full of joy and beauty and dreams becoming reality.
Or full of such hardship and grief and struggle.
*
I think so many of us miss our Promised Land because we can’t see past the giants looming ahead. We can’t leave behind the lifeless security of what was for the living hope of what could be. We lose faith in the fight it takes to get there.
Yet.
If you can muster a seed of faith, if you can trust in what you cannot see, if you can surrender the battle the One who fights for you, you’ll find the narrow path in. You’ll discover the wide-open fields of freedom where your open-handed prayers and offerings are met with God’s abundance and provision. Where what you reap is always greater than what you sow.
Yes, you will work and labor and feel exhausted. You will still feel the waves of resistance and the heat of refining fires. You will not be impervious to sorrow and grief or even despair.
But you will be held through it all.
You will find green pastures and quiet waters. You will feast in the presence of your enemies. Your cup will overflow.
Goodness and Mercy will follow you all the days of your life.
Yes, it is hard. I’ve tasted and I’ve seen.
But it is also exceedingly good.
