Today marks the one week anniversary of our farce. Each day we continue pretending we are neat, pretending we light candles regularly, and pretending we don't leave spit rings in our bathroom sink.
Other than having a minor heart attack every time the phone rings (Is it the showing service, and how long will it take to clear this mess off the kitchen table?), the first week has not been as bad as I thought.
Probably because the phone is not exactly ringing off the wall. I've only had to scramble once so far, and, even though the house was not perfect for the showing (it never will be), at least I didn't find anyone's dirty underwear on the floor when I got home. I keep telling myself it's not how many people see the house. It just takes one...
In the quiet moments, waiting for another layer of dust to fall on the coffee table so I can dust it again, I think about how weird is that whole exchange between my desires, my present circumstances, and God's ultimate will for our family. It's funny how God uses all of these together - even when they are flawed - to weave the fabric of our lives.
Then I start to think about how our decision to move will impact who our kids become friends with, possibly where they go to college, what they choose to study (what if they choose something like, say, animal husbandry?), and (yikes!) whom they marry.
(No pressure or anything.)
But in my good moments (after I've polished the bathroom sink, perhaps) I realize that even if things don't pan out according to our plan, and we end up scrapping the whole move idea, we can rest, because (as Elisabeth Elliot is fond of saying) His refusals are always His mercies.
Meanwhile, we keep up the farce. Even if we do not end up selling the house, maybe it's His mercy that made us get rid of so much stuff so we can enjoy this place even more.