Cherishing Home

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.” (Ps. 90:1 ESV)

My husband and I aren’t big celebrators or gift-givers, but on our twenty-fifth anniversary, he made a book for me. It was a countdown of things we had done over the years, from “Twenty-five years of marriage” to “One love of my life.” Coming up with something for each number was quite a feat of dedication and imagination.

Most items are humorous. Music plays a big part in our lives, so “A musical scale has eight notes,” came with a silly poem based on “Doe, a deer” that wouldn’t be funny to anyone but me. Some are stretching things a bit. “At least eleven animals.” “Twenty-two vehicles,” if you count the wheelbarrow he had to push me in after the wedding, from the church to where someone had parked our car.

Not long ago, I mentioned to a friend that number sixteen in the book was “Sixteen addresses.” To her, that sounded like a lot. I know people who wouldn’t be impressed. There were various reasons for so many moves. Sometimes we chose to move, sometimes we didn’t have a choice. I’m a nestle-in-er. At many of those addresses, I thought, I could be happy staying here. Leave me be, and I’ll make this our home.

Our first apartment really wasn’t one. Before we were married, a dear friend allowed my husband to convert her basement into a dwelling for us. Our only heat source was a wood-burning stove. Our kitchen had a scavenged stove and sink, a long, open shelf for dishes, and one of those huge, old rounded-corner refrigerators. Because the refrigerator door wouldn’t latch, we held it shut with a stump from the firewood pile. I was probably as efficient opening and closing that door as Great-Grandma trying not to let the cold out of the icebox. But we had everything we needed.

The next year, we sold most of what few possessions we had so we could take a job at a dude ranch in the Big Horn Mountains. For about five months, we lived in one room off the kitchen of the lodge. That was a challenging season in many ways, but in that environment, I would have had to be blind indeed not to know we were living in a dwelling place of God.

A few years later, while I was pregnant with our third child, we moved from a big (for Wyoming) town, to a city in Colorado. We had very little time to find a place to rent and knew nothing about the neighborhoods. We ended up in a tiny house with a dirt yard across the street from what we’re sure now were drug dealers. A neighbor later told me ours was the only house in the neighborhood that hadn’t been robbed. Because of my husband’s job in the army, I was alone for about half of the twenty months we lived there. With no phone.

What we also couldn’t know about when we were moving into that house in the dark and snow was the next door neighbor, who would be a special gift to me. She loved me and my kids, let me use her phone and her washing machine, and played Scrabble with me. God didn’t leave me alone while he was teaching me to know where my true dwelling place was.

When we went from there to Germany for a three-year stint, God gave us a cozy apartment in a German village rather than on an army post. Because all our belongings had to fit in a particular-sized container for the boat trip across the Atlantic, once again our possessions were pared down to the bare necessities. Sometimes, I reveled in how easy it was to keep our home tidy when things were minimal. At other times, I chafed at how cramped the place could feel in winter, as I tried to keep three kids quiet enough for the downstairs neighbors. But I do look back at that apartment as a real blessing.

I’ve written before about some of the lessons God had for me in this most extreme move. But as I think about it in terms of wishing, in the midst of all the moves, for a place to nestle, I can see how gently persistent God was in teaching me to find my true dwelling place in him. He had moved me from what had become my comfort to a new state where we were strangers. Then he took us to a different country altogether, one where we knew we were sojourners. After some time to get used to that, he left me there with my children and took my husband to war. He seemed to be saying, You’re catching on. Now it’s time for a test.

There were several more moves after our twenty-fifth anniversary. We had been married for thirty-four years when God gave me my dream home. I still marvel at the way he showed me that he had known all along when I would be ready for it. I think he was waiting until I knew how to cherish it without hanging on too tightly. I needed to understand that this world is not my true home. “Lord, you have been our dwelling place!”

So teach us to number our days

that we may get a heart of wisdom.

Return, O Lord! How long?

Have pity on your servants!

Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,

that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.

Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,

and for as many years as we have seen evil.

Let your work be shown to your servants,

and your glorious power to their children.

Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,

and establish the work of our hands upon us;

yes, establish the work of our hands! (Ps. 90:12-17 ESV)

Through the gift of a faithful mother and grandmother, Diane Pendergraft grew up knowing Jesus as a friend. Married for nearly two-thirds of her life, there has been time for several seasons, from homeschooling to owning a coffee shop. She has three grown children and nine grandchildren. An element of this season is writing about literature and life at Plumfield and Paideia.