The year was 1996. I was young and eager and fresh out of college with a newly minted Bachelors degree and a new {used} Toyota. Happily working in my very first 'real' job as a hospital social worker, I was carefully hoarding a tiny bit of money in the bank that had taken me my entire life to save. I moved from my dorm to my parents' house to my first apartment and commenced enjoying my new-found freedom, social life, and INCOME. Amazing how that first salary seems like an absolute fortune when you're fresh out of college...
MY DREAM? Oh, it wasn't about career, marriage, or family; marriage and family could definitely wait, and since I have never been money-motivated (as evidenced by my choice of occupation), career definitely wasn't on my list of priorities, to say the least. NO, my dream was to have a house.... my OWN little house. And not just ANY house; a vintage 1930s-ish home with charm and character and hardwood floors in our city's historic district... the ONLY neighborhood that would do, and at that time, cute little vintage houses in that particular neighborhood were in demand and VERY hard to come by.
All day every day I dreamed about 'my' house, my adorable vintage cottage, and tore pictures out of magazines and read how-to-DIY books. I prayed, I waited, I stalked 'my' neighborhood, and finally, finally, found the ONE, the cutest little 1941 storybook cottage that ever existed. I used all the money in my savings account for a down payment. For seven years as I went from just me to "we", I painted, repainted, decorated, redecorated, moved furniture and moved it again, and just plain adored the cute little dream cottage that held my heart and now my family. I believed that THIS house, my adorable cottage that I had poured my heart and soul into, would be our home for life.
And then one day I realized with a heavy heart that for all practical purposes our family had outgrown my adorable cottage. Two bedrooms might have been forced to work for us a little longer, because I'm a big believer in kids sharing bedrooms, and heaven knows that generations of families had made do and been quite content with far less than 1,400 square feet and two bedrooms, but the inconvenience of having only one bathroom to share between multiple people became tiresome and grated on our nerves. And as is the norm for all young and growing families we set our sights on something bigger... but in my case, that 'something bigger' could ONLY be something 1930s-ish with hardwood floors and in MY neighborhood, because it was still the only neighborhood that would do.
I prayed, I waited, I stalked 'my' neighborhood, and finally, finally, found the ONE, a 1929 two-story colonial with a center hallway staircase and with leaded stained glass windows and hardwood floors and original black-and-white-tile bathrooms. Just like that, my new dream became THIS house, this sad and neglected, but really big, house. Lots and lots of square footage... room to comfortably add another child or three. And bathrooms for everyone! Plenty of potties to go around with none of that pesky waiting-for-your-turn! The artist in me thrives on transforming something ugly and dilapidated into something charming and beautiful, and this house NEEDED ME and NEEDED to be transformed and updated and rescued and filled with life. In actuality, more than the house needed me to rescue it, I thought I needed to have it to rescue.
I tore pictures out of magazines and filled an accordion file with clippings for ideas for every single room, studied HGTV and spent hours at Barnes and Noble reading how-to books and subscribed to all the best decorating magazines and slowly, slowly, over several years, chipped away at project after project, ripping out decades-old shag carpet, tearing down wallpaper, sweeping up rat droppings and roaches, scouring antiques auctions for rugs and eBay for vintage-style cabinet knobs.
I was willing to take this huge renovation slowly because it had to be exactly right, like the house I envisioned in my dreams, and for two long years I cooked all my meals with only a crock pot, electric griddle, and toaster oven because I had no functioning kitchen. Every evening I happily washed dishes by hand. It was hardly a burden at all, and in fact became my therapy, because having my hands immersed in warm soapy water for an hour or two every evening was wonderfully relaxing and made me feel a strange kinship with the many decades of women who had washed dishes by hand in this house since 1929.
The kitchen was my piece de resistance, mostly because I had two years to think about and plan for it. I knew it must have white Shaker-style inset cabinets to fit in with a 1920s house, white subway tile, and black counter tops. The light fixtures were a compromise; I had my heart set on Schoolhouse Electric, but couldn't afford all I wanted. The appliances were to be stainless; not very 1920s, but I loved the look of the modern appliances with the vintage-style cabinets. And hardwood floors. Dark stained hardwood floors that still show, if you look closely enough, tiny footprints from a six-year-old girl who walked through the room before the floor was dry. There were new French doors opening out onto a deck, and the window-seat was one of my favorite touches. Neutral walls, but the ceiling was painted a pale aqua color. And it was the most beautiful kitchen I had ever seen. I would spend hours in there because I WANTED to, and not just because I was the mom and I had to. This was my kitchen. Mine. Every detail, carefully chosen by me. Saved in my accordion file for years. Mine.
And then for reasons beyond my control... I couldn't live in my house anymore.
The five years of painting and repainting and decorating and redecorating and planning and saving and all of the blood, sweat, and tears and heart and soul I had poured into MY house... I had to hand it all over to someone else and walk away. My kitchen, the one I had planned and dreamed for two years... not mine anymore.
My center hallway staircase, where I envisioned pictures of my kids spanning all the way to the second floor, my daughters' bridal portraits captured on these stairs some distant day in the future... it wasn't to be. Those would be someone else's stairs, someone else's kids' photographs spanning all the way to the second floor, someone else's bridal portraits.
And I'm not going to lie... I grieved over the loss of my house. I cried and ached. This house contained so many of my dreams within its walls (its walls that had been carefully painted in colors I had labored over...) And it wasn't just the house; I lost my entire identity. I lost my 'job' of nine years as a stay-at-home-mom. I lost my car. But out of all of the losses I endured between 2010 and 2014, losing this house was one of the most devastatingly painful. So many memories here; so many plans; so many dreams... all snatched away.
I didn't think I'd ever get over it.
It consumed me for a while; I'd dream about the house, drive past the house, grieve and mourn for the house, try to think up a way, against all odds, to buy it back. I had left with no job and no car, after all...
My life had become a picture of the locust plague in the book of Joel:
What the locust swarm has left, the great locusts have eaten; what the great locusts have left, the young locusts have eaten;what the young locusts have left other locusts have eaten.
The fields are ruined, the ground is dried up; the grain is destroyed, the new wine is dried up, the oil fails.
Despair, you farmers, wail, you vine growers; grieve for the wheat and the barley because the harvest of the field is destroyed.
Surely the joy of mankind is withered away.
Despair? Check. Grief? Check. Joy withered? Check, check.
But time heals, the Lord heals, and every day that I walked with Him I knew that He had plans for me and hope and a future. Though none of this was what I would have chosen for myself, none of it came as a surprise to God.
And just like God did in Chapter 2 of Joel, He saw my misery and He heard my cries and He healed me, and not only healed me... He gave me back all that the locusts had eaten.
I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten --
God says that, right there in Joel 2:25.
And then, when I was wondering how I could possibly recover all that had been lost, God did just as He did in Joel and sent me abundant showers, both autumn and spring rains, as before.
Just like in Joel... God has done great things for me.
It's just that my idea of 'great things' has changed...
I have a new {old} house; it's not in the Azalea District, but it was forlorn and neglected, needing me to rescue it. It doesn't have hardwood floors, but carpet isreally nice on cold mornings. It has stairs, but not center hallway stairs. It doesn't have custom cabinets or granite counter tops. But oh, so much laughing happens here in this house that's mine, with a husband who is better than anything I could have asked for or imagined, and three little girls now instead of two. And I couldn't be happier.
That's because a house (any house, in any neighborhood) with lots of laughing in it is better than a 1930s-ish colonial with hardwood floors and misery ANY day... and this family, in this house, is my new dream.
I am sending you new grain, new wine and oil, enough to satisfy you fully; never again will I make you an object of scorn...
And my old house? God had a plan for it, too... The girl who bought it found me through my blog and emailed me, and we've become Facebook friends. It turns out that she loves the house as much as I once did, and has poured her heart and soul into it, and painted and repainted and made it hers and posts pictures of that fabulous leaded stained glass on Facebook just like I once did.
The miracle of miracles is that I want that house to be hers, and knowing that my old house is loved makes me happy.
Sometimes God wants to give you more than you could have ever asked for or imagined, but you can't have it until your dreams are swallowed up by locusts.
...you will praise the name of the Lord your God, who has worked wonders for you...
And indeed, He has.
MY DREAM? Oh, it wasn't about career, marriage, or family; marriage and family could definitely wait, and since I have never been money-motivated (as evidenced by my choice of occupation), career definitely wasn't on my list of priorities, to say the least. NO, my dream was to have a house.... my OWN little house. And not just ANY house; a vintage 1930s-ish home with charm and character and hardwood floors in our city's historic district... the ONLY neighborhood that would do, and at that time, cute little vintage houses in that particular neighborhood were in demand and VERY hard to come by.
All day every day I dreamed about 'my' house, my adorable vintage cottage, and tore pictures out of magazines and read how-to-DIY books. I prayed, I waited, I stalked 'my' neighborhood, and finally, finally, found the ONE, the cutest little 1941 storybook cottage that ever existed. I used all the money in my savings account for a down payment. For seven years as I went from just me to "we", I painted, repainted, decorated, redecorated, moved furniture and moved it again, and just plain adored the cute little dream cottage that held my heart and now my family. I believed that THIS house, my adorable cottage that I had poured my heart and soul into, would be our home for life.
And then one day I realized with a heavy heart that for all practical purposes our family had outgrown my adorable cottage. Two bedrooms might have been forced to work for us a little longer, because I'm a big believer in kids sharing bedrooms, and heaven knows that generations of families had made do and been quite content with far less than 1,400 square feet and two bedrooms, but the inconvenience of having only one bathroom to share between multiple people became tiresome and grated on our nerves. And as is the norm for all young and growing families we set our sights on something bigger... but in my case, that 'something bigger' could ONLY be something 1930s-ish with hardwood floors and in MY neighborhood, because it was still the only neighborhood that would do.
I prayed, I waited, I stalked 'my' neighborhood, and finally, finally, found the ONE, a 1929 two-story colonial with a center hallway staircase and with leaded stained glass windows and hardwood floors and original black-and-white-tile bathrooms. Just like that, my new dream became THIS house, this sad and neglected, but really big, house. Lots and lots of square footage... room to comfortably add another child or three. And bathrooms for everyone! Plenty of potties to go around with none of that pesky waiting-for-your-turn! The artist in me thrives on transforming something ugly and dilapidated into something charming and beautiful, and this house NEEDED ME and NEEDED to be transformed and updated and rescued and filled with life. In actuality, more than the house needed me to rescue it, I thought I needed to have it to rescue.
I tore pictures out of magazines and filled an accordion file with clippings for ideas for every single room, studied HGTV and spent hours at Barnes and Noble reading how-to books and subscribed to all the best decorating magazines and slowly, slowly, over several years, chipped away at project after project, ripping out decades-old shag carpet, tearing down wallpaper, sweeping up rat droppings and roaches, scouring antiques auctions for rugs and eBay for vintage-style cabinet knobs.
I was willing to take this huge renovation slowly because it had to be exactly right, like the house I envisioned in my dreams, and for two long years I cooked all my meals with only a crock pot, electric griddle, and toaster oven because I had no functioning kitchen. Every evening I happily washed dishes by hand. It was hardly a burden at all, and in fact became my therapy, because having my hands immersed in warm soapy water for an hour or two every evening was wonderfully relaxing and made me feel a strange kinship with the many decades of women who had washed dishes by hand in this house since 1929.
The kitchen was my piece de resistance, mostly because I had two years to think about and plan for it. I knew it must have white Shaker-style inset cabinets to fit in with a 1920s house, white subway tile, and black counter tops. The light fixtures were a compromise; I had my heart set on Schoolhouse Electric, but couldn't afford all I wanted. The appliances were to be stainless; not very 1920s, but I loved the look of the modern appliances with the vintage-style cabinets. And hardwood floors. Dark stained hardwood floors that still show, if you look closely enough, tiny footprints from a six-year-old girl who walked through the room before the floor was dry. There were new French doors opening out onto a deck, and the window-seat was one of my favorite touches. Neutral walls, but the ceiling was painted a pale aqua color. And it was the most beautiful kitchen I had ever seen. I would spend hours in there because I WANTED to, and not just because I was the mom and I had to. This was my kitchen. Mine. Every detail, carefully chosen by me. Saved in my accordion file for years. Mine.
And then for reasons beyond my control... I couldn't live in my house anymore.
The five years of painting and repainting and decorating and redecorating and planning and saving and all of the blood, sweat, and tears and heart and soul I had poured into MY house... I had to hand it all over to someone else and walk away. My kitchen, the one I had planned and dreamed for two years... not mine anymore.
My center hallway staircase, where I envisioned pictures of my kids spanning all the way to the second floor, my daughters' bridal portraits captured on these stairs some distant day in the future... it wasn't to be. Those would be someone else's stairs, someone else's kids' photographs spanning all the way to the second floor, someone else's bridal portraits.
And I'm not going to lie... I grieved over the loss of my house. I cried and ached. This house contained so many of my dreams within its walls (its walls that had been carefully painted in colors I had labored over...) And it wasn't just the house; I lost my entire identity. I lost my 'job' of nine years as a stay-at-home-mom. I lost my car. But out of all of the losses I endured between 2010 and 2014, losing this house was one of the most devastatingly painful. So many memories here; so many plans; so many dreams... all snatched away.
I didn't think I'd ever get over it.
It consumed me for a while; I'd dream about the house, drive past the house, grieve and mourn for the house, try to think up a way, against all odds, to buy it back. I had left with no job and no car, after all...
My life had become a picture of the locust plague in the book of Joel:
What the locust swarm has left, the great locusts have eaten; what the great locusts have left, the young locusts have eaten;what the young locusts have left other locusts have eaten.
The fields are ruined, the ground is dried up; the grain is destroyed, the new wine is dried up, the oil fails.
Despair, you farmers, wail, you vine growers; grieve for the wheat and the barley because the harvest of the field is destroyed.
Surely the joy of mankind is withered away.
Despair? Check. Grief? Check. Joy withered? Check, check.
But time heals, the Lord heals, and every day that I walked with Him I knew that He had plans for me and hope and a future. Though none of this was what I would have chosen for myself, none of it came as a surprise to God.
And just like God did in Chapter 2 of Joel, He saw my misery and He heard my cries and He healed me, and not only healed me... He gave me back all that the locusts had eaten.
I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten --
God says that, right there in Joel 2:25.
And then, when I was wondering how I could possibly recover all that had been lost, God did just as He did in Joel and sent me abundant showers, both autumn and spring rains, as before.
Just like in Joel... God has done great things for me.
It's just that my idea of 'great things' has changed...
I have a new {old} house; it's not in the Azalea District, but it was forlorn and neglected, needing me to rescue it. It doesn't have hardwood floors, but carpet isreally nice on cold mornings. It has stairs, but not center hallway stairs. It doesn't have custom cabinets or granite counter tops. But oh, so much laughing happens here in this house that's mine, with a husband who is better than anything I could have asked for or imagined, and three little girls now instead of two. And I couldn't be happier.
That's because a house (any house, in any neighborhood) with lots of laughing in it is better than a 1930s-ish colonial with hardwood floors and misery ANY day... and this family, in this house, is my new dream.
I am sending you new grain, new wine and oil, enough to satisfy you fully; never again will I make you an object of scorn...
And my old house? God had a plan for it, too... The girl who bought it found me through my blog and emailed me, and we've become Facebook friends. It turns out that she loves the house as much as I once did, and has poured her heart and soul into it, and painted and repainted and made it hers and posts pictures of that fabulous leaded stained glass on Facebook just like I once did.
The miracle of miracles is that I want that house to be hers, and knowing that my old house is loved makes me happy.
Sometimes God wants to give you more than you could have ever asked for or imagined, but you can't have it until your dreams are swallowed up by locusts.
...you will praise the name of the Lord your God, who has worked wonders for you...
And indeed, He has.
