Telling a story is like reaching into a granary full of wheat and drawing out a handful.
There is always more to tell than can be told.
― Wendell Berry

This is a story that deserves a back story (and a rabbit trail or two) and it would best be delivered on a front porch with a breeze and a glass of lemonade.

This is a story of waiting and of hope deferred, of generosity and community.  This is a story of Not This, but That, second choice and different than expected.

This is a beautiful story.

It’s mine, but in the same way that we all come to know truth, it’s not my story at all.

On Friday, I signed my name about two dozen times and for the very first time in my life, at forty-four years old, I bought a house.

It’s not a farmhouse and I’m not being carried across the threshold by a Prince Charming.

But it’s a good house and I’m walking through the front door on my own two sturdy legs.

I’ll share photos soon enough, but for now – we’ll be packing up our own house.  It’s a slower than normal move due to some financial hoops that required jumping through and the fact that the completed new home the former owners are building is not quite finished.

This isn’t the path I thought I’d be walking.

But it’s also not a path I’m avoiding or treading down with clenched fists and eyes squeezed shut.

I’m skipping, actually, and I’m drawing out floor plans and rearranging furniture and sorting it all in my brain and on paper and to anyone who will listen.

I’m also celebrating with friends.  And pizza.  And banana pudding.

Also – side note – I’m giving away and selling and tossing so much flotsam and jetsam from my current house.  Seven years and what a load of stuff we have here.  The next home is smaller in size and I’m actually thrilled about a clean slate and fresh walls and less things.  I’ll be selling some beds for sure and a variety of other random items.  If you’ve had your eye on something at my home, maybe now is the time to let me know.  Shoot, maybe I’ll sell enough of this and that to buy a Roomba.

Buying a house has pretty much been an experience like a handful of other experiences over the last few years.  Something I longed for, dreamed of for years – decades, actually.  And it has turned out not in one single way like I imagined it would have.

But it’s good, nevertheless.

All kinds of Happy and Surprising and Unexpected Good.

Just like these gorgeous flowers that maneuvered their way to my kitchen table to celebrate my closing.  (Also a pretty story worth hearing some time.)

And just like so much of my life, my story, this day would not have been possible without some divine appointments and encouragements and care from a whole passel of dear and lovely human beings.  A few of who are pictured here.  (Although, just like all worthwhile stories, the cast of characters is deep and wide and I don’t have an actual photograph of all of their faces.)

My life has not followed an orderly line.

Maybe yours has not either.

It’s not all baby goats and sunshine and mountain peaks.

But sometimes, some days, it’s just as delightful.

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