“For something to live, we must let other things die.” –Nikki Giovanni

The finalization of my divorce ushered in a new reality that took months to fully realize. I don’t believe it was a coincidence that on the very day everything was legally finalized two years ago, my landlord informed me she was selling the house I had been renting and lived in with my ex for the previous four years. It felt like a clear sign that I was supposed to have a start fresh. “The old is gone, the new has come” had taken on new significance that week (2 Corinthians 5:17).

I had 20 days to find a place, pack, and move, which seemed insane in a housing market where multiple parties were clamoring over the same overpriced condos and houses.

At that time, I had yet to partake in the modern dating ritual of online dating, but looking for a rental property is what I imagined it was like. The pictures might or might not be current, the descriptions were certainly exaggerated, and you felt like you had to break up with every potential landlord after only one meeting. I found myself saying various versions of, “It’s me, it’s not you…” multiple times. I kept finding not quite right’s, no’s, and hell no’s. If I liked the place, I didn’t like the neighborhood, or vice versa. I felt like Goldilocks, but also knew how important “home” is to me. Friends prayed, sent me listings, and kept encouraging me to look for my “just right.”

After looking at dozens of properties, I had only found one place I liked enough to submit a credit application for. It was out of my price range, and they didn’t accept my negotiated offer for rent. For some reason though, I had hope. Maybe more importantly, I had a Plan B. My stuff could go into storage and I could stay at a friend’s house who worked for months at a time in LA. I would save a ton of money and could look for something I felt great about.

I packed, scheduled movers, and had given up looking all together a week before my move date. My back up plan became my Plan A, and I was resigned to live like a vagabond for at least a couple of months. Still, I kept sensing the slightest of whispers asking me, “Do you trust me?” And the answer was always “Yes.” Some may call it the universe, but I call it God. In my heart of hearts, when I am at my best, I believe that the God of love and light and originator of all good things has my best interest at heart. I chose to believe that the perfect place was out there for me.

Around this same time, I read the Bible story of Lazarus dying and was clearly reminded that God’s glory is often revealed in waiting. That he sometimes purposefully stays two extra days after finding out his friend was sick because he knew that his power couldn’t be denied in the miracle of the mummy.

Similarly, our broken lives, wrapped in bandages and lying in our emotional tombs, can experience resurrection when we least expect it.

Six days before my move date, the landlord of the one place I liked told me I could move in at the lower price I had offered. I know this seems like simple economics. Maybe they had priced the place too high. Maybe they didn’t get any other qualified applicants. Maybe they just didn’t like other potential tenants as much as me. And while all those things could have been partially true, I know this was God showing off. Revealing his goodness in the way only he does. Reassuring me that he sees me and knows me, will always provide exactly what I need, and often blesses me with more than I ask or imagine.

When we are expectantly waiting, crying out to Jesus, “If only you were here, I would not be dead,” he comes, weeps with us, dries our tears, and does his miracle thing. The new reality sheds off the rotting bandages of our old selves and we are brought back to life. A fully alive, regenerated-cells version of our former selves. And we can look back and thank him for the waiting. And maybe even the death.

[Photo: The top floor of this duplex is what I have called home, sweet home ever since.]