If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this last year – aside from the fact that my belly can, in certain circumstances, double as a coffee table and that bras do, in fact, come in size F – it is that God always provides for us. Whether our needs are tangible or not, he has a beautiful way of handing us exactly what we need precisely when we need it most. Apartments, jobs, medical insurance, a healthy birth – all of these have been granted to us in the past year, even when they’d seemed unlikely, when they looked nothing like we’d expected.
He has never failed to come through for us.
Last Wednesday, a set of circumstances culminated in the disheartening news that we needed to move out of our apartment as quickly as possible. We had no leads on a new place, no idea where to start looking, and with a brand new baby we felt that we had quite enough on our plates without having to worry about packing and moving, thank you.
I got off the phone with Mitch, having broken the bad news to him, and set off with Lydia in the stroller. Every week, she and I take a long, sunny, late afternoon walk to one of the neighborhoods where I grew up, passing by old trees and historic houses, to pick up our summer share from a local farm. As I walked, I mulled all this over, praying under my breath and heaving great, tired sighs.
In all my walk I saw just one “For Rent” sign. The sign had nothing on it but a phone number, and though the neighborhood alone put it quite outside our budget, I dialed the number anyway, just because I felt I ought to try.
Yesterday, I got the news that we’re moving in next month. The old market, converted into a funky house, is beautiful and perfect for us: two bedrooms, big windows, an enormous kitchen (by my stunted standards, of course), space for the cats, a small yard.
It arrived perfectly when we needed it. And it is strangely inside our budget.