Like Fried OkraBlog / Produced by The High Calling
My husband and I no longer own a mortgage.
Last week, during my lunch hour, I met my husband at the title company here in town, climbed three flights of marble stairs, sat on one side of a board room table and signed the papers to make the sale of our house official. It was painless. It really was. In fact, it felt incredibly right and good.
Earlier this year, my husband and I made the decision to sell our house and become renters. We can't explain it, other than to tell you it's the right choice for us. For now. Sometimes, when we tell people we've sold our home and moved into a rental, they give us the same look we get when we mention that we like fried okra. They furrow their brow and then tuck in their chin and let the corners of their mouth turn down ever so slightly.
It's clear fried okra isn't their thing.
Maybe you've seen that look before? When you've announced your decision to homeschool your child, or take a year off to do mission work, or submit your manuscript to a publisher one more time, or adopt another teenager, or run a marathon, or become a Detroit Lions fan. Deep inside, you know the decision is right for you. Yes, it's a step of faith, and you've got to lean hard on the God who dropped the idea into your lap. But, despite the way your knees knock together with each step you take toward the goal, you know you've made the right choice—even if it doesn't appeal to the one with whom you share the news.
Now, I'm one of the first to admit that fried okra is not for everyone. It's not even one of those things you can explain away by saying it's an acquired taste. Fried okra either works for you, or it doesn't. And, just because you find yourself enjoying a batch of fried okra, doesn't mean you'll enjoy it steamed, or sauteed, or smothered and disguised in a hearty bowl of shrimp gumbo. I don't think it works that way.
And isn't that the point? Isn't that one of the joys of being free indeed? Isn't this the glory of the great adventure? We get to live this one crazy, unique, magnificent life that no one else has lived before us, or will ever live again. We get to take hold of the vision God has for us, and live it out—big, and loud, and full. And even though we find sometimes that people just don't get it, it's all good anyway.
Last week, when the kitchen in our rental had been unpacked and we were feeling settled in, my husband and I took the dog for a walk around our new neighborhood, before we sat down to dinner. Big, old trees lined the streets and formed a canopy over our heads. Acorn caps crunched crisp beneath our feet. More than once, I found myself wrapped up in the leash as the dog meandered back and forth and all around, getting acquainted with new scents and smells. We rounded the corner onto our new street and saw the glow of the lamp post in the yard. Warm light from lamps inside shone through the picture window. Opening the front door, my husband released the dog's leash and we stepped over the threshold. We were home.