A few years ago my husband and I decided to build a house. We loved where we lived and wanted to sink our roots deep. A series of unlikely (miraculous, it seemed) events led us to believe that Providence was smiling on our choice. We were able to acquire land in our ward, sell our house within two weeks, move into a rental (also in our ward) that happened to open up the same week, and find a contractor we loved.
Had we known what lay ahead, however, there are a few things we might have done differently:
We might not have upgraded to the memory foam carpet pad or the Bosch dishwasher. We might not have chosen the premium toilets that could flush golf balls (golf balls!) or splurged on high-end toilet paper holders. (We opted for hinged-bar holders over the telescoping springy type. Yes we did.) We might not have installed a wall-mounted ironing board, giving away the regular one we’d had since our wedding. We probably wouldn’t have plumbed a laundry downstairs (for the kids) or wired the space under the stairs as a playhouse (for the grandkids).
We perhaps would have saved some money instead of sinking every penny into the house (why pay interest on something for thirty years if we can scrape together the cash now?).
We might not have worked every spare hour, and some that were not spare, infusing the walls with our own blood and muscle. We might not have intertwined our very souls (or so it felt) with the wires and stone and future of that house. We were building more than a home; we were building a life.
Late one night I went to the house, after the walls had been framed but before they flew the trusses, and stood in our bedroom where the bed was going to be. I stared up at the night sky, black and littered with stars. A breeze moved through the room, cool and smelling of grass and dirt. I wanted to seal the moment in my mind so that I could later lie in bed and envision the night sky beyond the ceiling—so that I could know the heavens above me.
A church had just been built directly behind our house and we went to the dedication. I remember thinking about how much this building would be a part of our lives—like a second home. I thought how wonderful it was that I could be there for the beginning, could live and learn and grow and eventually die with those bricks and halls as witness. I rose with the congregation to sing “The Spirit of God,” my throat tightening as the voices of beloved friends swelled around me: “Hosanna, hosanna, to God and the Lamb!”
Six months later, the economy imploded and we had to move.
Since then I’ve wondered about the economy of God, why the direction we were given didn’t fall more along the lines of, “Sit tight and conserve your resources, folks, because you’re not going to be here long.” Instead, we gave everything we had. We acted as though for years.
And then we learned how to walk away.
It did not feel fair.
We are now financially upside-down in a house almost half the size of the one we left. The basement regularly floods. The toilets regularly clog. The toilet paper holders are the springy type. And yet, I’ve come to realize that I’m living someone’s dream. Someone planned and worked and built the house we live in now. Someone loved it.
I’m learning that the fabric of my life is essentially made up of threads woven by other people. I eat food that I did not plant, harvest, or kill. I sit in the shade of trees I did not plant. I wear clothing that I did not sew or knit, and drink water that I didn’t pump or haul. Every day I touch, breathe, and eat the dreams of others.
It’s true that I pay for many of these things, but sliding a piece of plastic through a scanner or setting up auto bill-pay is not the same as paying. Not really. There’s no way to remunerate the consumption of sweat, hope, vision, even despair. There’s no way to buy the shade of a hundred-year-old tree.
It is this connectedness that balances the economy of God for me—this knowledge that whatever I give is not lost, even if it lost to me. That what I receive is more than I have given, more than I can give. There are times when I feel grace crashing down like a waterfall and mercy exploding with a brilliance that blinds. It’s not fair. Thank God, it is not fair. In the economy of God, we are all blessed beggars.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I lay in the dark and a memory comes–a black sky littered with stars and a grassy breeze. I feel the same heavens above me now. And even through the hollowness in my chest, I’m able to smile.
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