The Blessings Of A Broken Road

Last week, I talked about my parent’s celebrating their 46th wedding anniversary. This past week I marked another anniversary. This particular one was not celebrated or talked about or probably even noticed by anyone but me. It was a very important date, though, because it was a date that changed my life.

Sixteen years ago, on Oct. 16, 1992; I drove myself and all my possessions across the border from Louisiana to Arkansas. All my possessions sounds lofty, but what it really encompassed was what could fit into a Toyota Corolla. Me, my cat Isaac (named because it means "laughter" and I so wanted laughter in my life again), some clothing, a 12 inch television, and a few things that were sentimentally valuable to no one but me.

I was, in effect, running away. I was running away from hurt and violence and fear and the constant threat of never knowing when an angry vile filled eruption would occur. But I was also running to. I was running to peace and tranquility. Running to acceptance and understanding. Running to the unknown, which; although scary, was so very much better than the known.

I had very little money. I had no home. I had no job. I was going to be living temporarily with my best friend, sleeping on an air mattress for the immediate future in the only spare room she had. Her laundry room. We fixed it up and it turned into a fine, if a bit noisy, second bedroom. I worked as a temp at dozens of jobs, making less money than I had known was possible.

There were some hard days, some scary days and some lonely days when it seemed like I was all alone in the world. But being all alone was better than being in a toxic relationship, and I cherished the peace and the quiet–just beautiful quietness and peaceful silence–of coming home to a house where no one was waiting in anger when I opened the door.

No one was waiting to accuse me of one more wrong, to challenge me about one more fault or flaw or shortcoming. Knowing that I didn’t have to dread coming home was one of the very best parts of my day.

Coming home to Arkansas was the best decision I have ever made. Actually, it was a group of decisions. I had to decide to leave an abusive relationship. That sounds like it would be easy, but it wasn’t. I meant every single word of "till death do us part" and breaking those vows broke my heart. I took the failure personally, and it took me years to decide that there was nothing more I could do to save the relationship.

I had decide where "home" would be. I had been raised in Arkansas, but I wanted to go somewhere and totally start my life again. I thought a fresh start somewhere completely different might be better.

In the end though, home was here, and I longed for my place, for my people, for my way of life. I met my husband here, and we had our child here. I reconnected with my family here, found old friends and made new ones.

There’s a song called "God Bless the Broken Road." It talks about how every long lost dream leads to where we are now, and how others who broke our hearts were like stars guiding us to the ones we are with now.

My husband and I have been married for fifteen years. We have a 13 year old son that we cherish. My relationship with my family is precious, and I love his family as though they were of my blood.

Driving into Arkansas 16 years ago, I crossed through a little border town called Crossroads. I thought it was a pretty good description of the place I was in my life. I hoped I would find peace, and wondered if I would find happiness. Never in the wildest of my hopes and dreams did I imagine the depths of the love and peace and joy that were waiting for me. God truly did bless the broken road that led me to my new life.

Decades of Devotion

Today is my mom and dad’s anniversary. They’ve been married for 46 years. On this day, over four decades ago, two teenagers pledged their love for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, till death parted them.

They were young, and they were poor. Not poor like people are poor today. They had $3.00 to their name when they got married. No job, no place to live, and no reliable transportation. That kind of poor. But they were teen-agers, and they were in love, so $3 and love was all they needed.

We hear about the statistics from young marriages. They say they are doomed to fail. No money, sub-standard housing, low paying jobs, kids come along too fast and then there is even less money.

My parents could have fit some of those statistics. They certainly didn’t have a lot of money, and they didn’t have good paying jobs at first. Their first real home was a camper-sized trailer in my grandparents yard. My sister was born there, and a home not big enough for two got even smaller.

The first home I remember living in was the basement of the church my dad was pastoring in Harrisburg. The church couldn’t afford a parsonage, so the small basement was the parsonage. It had a little kitchen, a small living area, and a place for my sister and I to sleep and a place for my mom and dad to sleep. It would definitely be considered sub-standard housing. It was close to work though–all you had to was climb the stairs to go to church.

I don’t remember not being happy in that cramped basement. In fact, I don’t remember a time when I ever knew that my parents were anything but thrilled with where we were and what we were doing.

As an adult, I now know there were times of stress and turmoil and financial difficulties, because they have shared the stories of those times with me. But growing up, I never knew. I only knew the laughter, happiness and peace that reigned in my home.

We moved around, because at that time pastors in our denomination were moved every two to four years, if not more often, whether or not you wanted to. My sister and I didn’t always want to go, but it was part of the life my parents had been called to, and we understood the calling even if we disagreed with the method.

We understood something else early on, also. We understood that our home wasn’t the wood or bricks that surrounded us. Our home was the people living inside. We lived in a lot of different places. Some houses we liked, some towns we liked. Some we very much didn’t. But it wasn’t the structure that made up our home. It was us.

Our parents helped us understand that no matter where we were sent, we would be home because home was where our family was.

Over the decades, my parents have been devoted to each other and to us, their children. Now they have grandchildren that they are devoted to. They have been devoted to the members of each church they have pastored.

Today, they celebrate those decades of devotion. Today, I celebrate having parents that showed me what having a covenant marriage is all about; that showed me how to celebrate family; that showed me how to laugh even through the tough times; and that showed me the value of home. Not the place, but the people inside the place.

House Hunters

I like to watch a show on HGTV called "House Hunters." The show follows someone who is looking for a new home as they look at three potential homes, then make their choice.

My mom and I often watch the show together, or call each other after the show goes off to discuss the choices made. We make a game of guessing which house will be chosen.

I’m particularly interested in the show lately, because they could be following me around. We are hunting for a house also. There is nothing wrong with where we live now. In fact, I love just about everything about my house. It’s big, it’s in a great neighborhood, and it has a lot of features that I like.

The one thing that it doesn’t have is land; and that is the one thing my husband desires. After 15 years of living in the city because his city girl wife was raised that way; my country boy husband would like to live out in the country.

I figure after 15 years, it’s time to let him have his way for once. So, we are selling our house (hopefully) and looking for a new home to buy.

It’s been an adventure. We’ve seen little houses and big houses, cluttered houses and clean houses, and a few houses that make you wonder what the homeowner was thinking. We just about needed sunglasses in one house because the walls were all such bright colors. Then again, after someone walks through my house, they may wonder the same thing.

I never knew roosters were so popular. I can’t believe how many kitchens have roosters for their decor. My mom thinks it is because we are looking at homes in the country, and roosters go along with being out in the country. I don’t necessarily dislike roosters, but I’m not sure I like them either. I’ve never given all that much thought to roosters, but apparently someone has, because those little critters are everywhere.

I had forgotten how many people have carpet throughout their home. We don’t. Because my son has asthma, we have hardwood floors in most of our home. I’m so used to it that it surprises me every time I go into a home that is completely carpeted.

One of the first things we are looking at in the houses we see is how much flooring we will need to re-do. We’ve ripped out carpet every place we have lived for 13 years now, so we are getting to be experts at it.

It is a bittersweet time. I get attached to any place I live, because it is my home, where my family has made memories and shared love and laughter. But it is an exciting time too, because we are looking forward to this next step in our lives, to moving on and finding our next home.

It’s going to be interesting to watch this city girl out in the country. I have a feeling it will take some getting used to, because I have a lot to learn. If I run across any of those roosters, I guess I will have to see if they have laid any eggs for me. Maybe I need to ask my mom, a country girl, about that.