Your House, His Refuge: God’s Best and Final Offer

Note: This post was originally written and published on another platform in 2018.

Brandon and I are house hunting. So far, I’ve learned it can be an exhilarating and surprising pursuit, filled with adrenaline rushes and natural highs of the highest state. I’ve also learned that it is heartbreaking, tormenting, discouraging. It can fill you with hope, and it extends doubt an invitation to consume you.

Was I naïve to think I could win a dream?

I’m putting everything I have into this process.

This home felt like ours.

What happens to the phantom kids I saw running circles around my kitchen and leaving greasy fingerprints on whitewashed walls?

For months we’ve searched online for the perfect starter house—a fixer upper, something we could craft, together. Something to illustrate how brilliantly the two of us have come together as one, over the past two years. The perfect house would emulate our creative flair, marry our talents and interests, and discipline our disputes into healthy resolve. It would serve as a testament to the solid foundation of our marriage.

When I was a kid, I read a book about a girl who wanted to buy a horse. Her father warned her not to fall in love with the first horse she saw, to really keep her options open for the absolute best. I don’t remember the story; I just remember she fell in love with the very first one.

I had a similar, but reversed experience while wedding dress shopping. I had ideas of what the perfect dress might be. If you know anything about internet expectations versus reality, you won’t be surprised that I quickly displaced my internet-dream pile and nervously gathered gowns I’d never considered. On dress number seven, I found “it.” The dress was flared, regal. It had gold filigree down the bodice, and made me feel like a princess out of place. It just wasn’t mine. It wasn’t white, the bold color of a pure bride waiting to be given away for the first and final time.

Discouraged, I unclenched my fingers from the fabric of quinceañera fantasies, and took one glance at the remaining dress in my changing room. “Okay, God. This is it. If I’m not meant to buy the ‘Golden Grandeur,’ you better let me know.” I prayed with my eyes shut as I laced myself into the satin mermaid ensemble. It was only when I opened them before the mirror that I found myself in the dress I would stain with ocean waves and sand on a windy November day, next to my very best friend. In that moment, the “Golden Grandeur” became a frock.

Six houses fit into the palm of my hand on the first Saturday of our very own hunting season. Like my dresses, two of the houses were at the top of my radar, and I saved them for last. The first of the two felt large for such a small family. The second was probably the scene of inspiration for Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum”—definitely not a home. There was one final listing in our pile of possibilities. Nobody could remember how it got there—neither my husband nor the realtor remembered adding it to our list. We walked in, and I immediately felt taller, supported perhaps by Cinderella’s slippers. It was a perfect fit.

For days, I envisioned gatherings with our closest friends, the space most conducive for our cat to play, and I dreamed of babies mixing cookie batter in my kitchen beside me. When I think about that house, I can still hear the laughter that would fill its walls, and feel the warmth that would sink into the carpets on holiday evenings. We put in our first offer, below asking price, but reasonable. Two hours later we were told that multiple offers were submitted and the realtor needed our “best and final offer” immediately.

We scrambled to determine what the house was worth, to us. Was it worth playing conservatively, and avoid betting against ourselves? Was it worth paying more than we should in hopes of securing a glorified dream? In those moments of insecurity, I embraced God fiercely.

I prayed our future house might be one that serves Him—one filled with memories and laughter, joy and growth. If this house wasn’t for us, wasn’t productive to his ministry, I didn’t want it. We settled on our “best and final offer,” and surrendered the outcome.

We waited anxiously for the next 48 hours. God showed up in those moments. He reminded me who he is and what he’s done. He reminded me that the couple who lands in that house might not have half the marriage of my husband’s and mine. The buyer might not have the trust in his realtor that we do. Any structure we call our home will be our place of refuge. Any walls can be used for hide and seek and messy finger paintings when God has placed it there. I was not in control of my temporary situation, but the God of my final destination would provide. There were many factors surrounding the situation that could result in a loss for us, but God constantly lifted me with the notion that even to lose this house was to gain.

God isn’t like us. He doesn’t give his best and final offer just once in a scared attempt to convey his commitment to us. God promises his best and final offer, daily. In the beginning he extended the best and final offer when he chose to create us—God didn’t need companionship, and yet he chose to uniquely design and keep us for his own. When we made a mess of creation, he didn’t have to save us from ourselves or from the broken world of our establishment. Still he sent his best and final offering through Christ Jesus to break every chain. In the real estate world, “best and final” means “Where do you draw the line?” God’s answer is always, “I don’t.” When we surrender our desires to his will, we find that the only best and final offer of value in this world is not of this world—it is the ultimate resting place in our savior.