The front door at our beach cottage sticks. It sticks terribly. Every morning I take my toddler boy out to play and I pull the door with all my strength, foot braced against the old door frame. The sound of the release of wood, humidity and humility sounds out like thunder down our quiet street.
I dream of a new door and a new frame and a return to the finer things in life. But my toddler boy races free into the morning sunshine and my husband, home at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning hands me a cup of hot coffee and I think I might just be living the finer life? But then I walk outside and the door slams like thunder behind me and it might just sound like the stinging echo of regret.
. . .
When we built our dream home four years ago the very last of months of custom choices was the selection of a front door. Like many other choices it ended up being a splurge, falling neatly in the category of “more than we budgeted for but we are two young professionals with no kids and what difference does a little extra make when financed over thirty years anyway?” I remember sitting at the desk of my lawyer job, on the phone, making the final front door decision with our builder who assured me that the front door would “absolutely make the whole house.” Well who was I to ruin the whole house with that one final decision? I bought the door, the pitch. I bought the life. Turns out the door was indeed lovely and it didn’t cost that much financially financed out over 30 long years.
That door, it never stuck.
In reality, we rarely used the front door at all. Like most hardworking suburbanites, we parked in the garage, came in the back door and exited the same way every morning. We were tired and in a hurry with our hour long commutes into the city that started and ended in darkness, cups of Venti breakfast blend in our cup holders. I don’t remember ever standing with the front door open on a random Tuesday morning, having coffee with my best friend in the middle of a work day. There weren’t any children dancing in the front yard. It would have taken a solid month to walk to the beach.
. . .
On the morning that the door sticks for the thousandth time, I pour buttermilk into a glass bowl and my toddler boy calls me sweetheart. I make pancakes for weekday brunch and my two year-old picks up terms of endearment from my husband because we now spend a lifetime of hours together. We are rarely in a hurry. There are no more commutes, unless you count the five minute walk to the beach. We are a one car family.
But the front door- it does stick. Years from now when it is replaced, there will be something else that tempts me to look back and question, if even for the briefest of moments, whether we made the right choice.
Whether we heard God right.
It was the Enemy’s first lie in the Garden when he taunted Eve, “Are you sure that God said that???”
We went from two young professionals living “the American Dream” to a stay-at-home, self-employed family-by choice. It was a tremendous life-style change, from the good to the bad to all the little things in between.
I get a blessed amount of encouraging email from readers, but the thing I hear the most is interest in our lifestyle change, following my post, The Harvest. I hope to write more about this, from the heart, as God gives me the words as to our unique walk with Him. Please know that I have nothing against traditional 9-5 jobs or big houses in the suburbs. I encourage you to listen to His awesome plan for your life. And I warn you that once you do step out in faith, you will probably have a sticky door of your own. It is all a part of the journey.
Jesus himself promised that He came so that we would have life and have it to the full.
As for me and my family, we’ll be enjoying buttermilk pancakes by the beach, abiding in this promise.
Sticky door and all.
Our hope is in Christ alone.