My freshman year of college, I was two thousand miles from home and could only manage one mid-year flight home at Christmas. So for Thanksgiving I was on my own. I had a stellar group of friends who all pledged their hospitality, but the invitation that caught my attention was from a fellow voice major who said his family had plans to visit his grandmother. He had mentioned before that his grandmother lived in the tiny town where my dad was a pastor the year I started kindergarten. Something about being in a familiar place appealed to my fragile feelings and solitary status.
My mom was so relieved to hear of my plans to spend Thanksgiving Day with new friends and a kind family. I explained what I knew of the connection to our town and shared the name of my friend’s grandmother. She recalled, “Oh, yes. I remember her. She lived in a big house just outside of town. She was wonderful and sweet.”
Thanksgiving Day we exited the interstate and traveled the bumpy miles down the turnpike, and then onto the county road into the heart of the sleepy downtown. We passed the church with the golden beehive brickwork and memories flooded my thoughts. Lingering at the stop sign, my friend patiently smiled as I verbally waded through the stream of excited observations. “That’s the door to my dad’s office! Oh, my gosh, my brother and I would sit under that awning and wait on him. I think that’s the fellowship hall over there … oh man, that courtyard. I remember!”
What a gift to step into a snapshot from my childhood. We turned left and then left again a block later. Everything seemed familiar but barely recognizable. “I’m pretty sure we lived on one of these streets … like just a block or two from the church,” I said. We pulled up to park along the curb of a yellow brick house with a carport and small concrete porch. “Are we here? I thought your Grandmother lived west of town,” I said confused. “Oh, yeah. She used to. But after Grandpa died, she traded deeds with the church, so that the big house outside of town is the parsonage, and she lives here now where she is close to everything.”
Was I walking up “my” front sidewalk to join cheerful strangers for casseroles and pie?
I noticed the built-in storage above the carport. Nostalgic hopes and nagging uncertainties compelled me to get a closer look. “You wanna look inside? It’s cool.” My friend unlatched the door to the stairs.
We crawled onto the squeaky loft, and pulled the chain to the single lightbulb hanging from the rafters. There, on one of the beams, were faded markings with names and dates.
About four feet up the wall, a notch was labeled: “Cari – 1976".
This was my house.
Can you believe how sweet our Heavenly Father is? On my first holiday away from home, He worked it out for me to return to a bit of home.
I love Him for a thousand reasons, but today I love Him for loving me that way – because it was an unexpected gift of faithfulness then, and it has served as a gift of expectant faith every day since then.
He will never leave us alone, and His love cannot fail.
