God's Special Provision
David and I want to tell you the story of the house we just bought in Colorado Springs, because this is one of those times when God gives us a glimpse of what a generous and specific giver He is.
We’ve lived in our home in Norman, Oklahoma for 16 years. Built in1928, it’s a solid but graceful brick house packed with character and charm, and we love it.
This January as we worked on various getting-the-house-ready-to-sell projects, I felt melancholy. Would we ever find a place in Colorado to suit us as well as this? It was the only house we looked at here in Norman when we decided to buy.
Even with the realtor’s nightmare of cheerfully sloppy renters who didn’t bother to clean up before our appointment—including dirty underwear on the bedroom floor, greasy dishes stacked on the counters, and a small dog that followed us from room to room and finally squatted to pee on the kitchen floor—we knew it was the one for us.
How could the Colorado Springs housing market live up to that kind of love at first sight?
In mid-January we flew to Glen Eyrie for a week of new staff training with The Navigators. The last session ended Sunday evening, and we’d made our return airline reservations for late Monday afternoon to give us a day to house-hunt. Peggy Skattebo recommended a realtor named Hank Poburka, who agreed to pick us up from breakfast at Nabeel and Barbara Jabbour’s home (all these terrific names, especially compared to Brown), take us in hand for the day, and drop us at the airport in time for our flight home.
During breakfast, the airline called to say the flight had been cancelled because of an ice storm in Oklahoma and we wouldn’t be able to leave until Tuesday. With unhesitating hospitality, the Jabbours extended their breakfast invitation to include dinner and overnight, and we drove off with Hank for a more open-ended day of house-hunting than we’d expected.
Hank is an excellent realtor. He explained the layout of Colorado Springs to us, listened seriously to what we said we wanted, brought up a number of properties on his computer, and took us to look at several. Nothing stirred our hearts. We’d started off with a short list of desires—for David, it should be within bicycling distance of work; I wanted lots of windows and a view of the mountains; we agreed on the need for a guestroom and, much as we love our Norman home, a younger house with plenty of electrical outlets and new plumbing. Barbara had added that we should avoid a north-facing driveway, where ice takes a long time to melt.
By late afternoon when Hank drove us back to his office, my list had grown to include “not jammed up against the neighbors nor staring down into their backyards.” I felt discouraged and gloomy. Hank revved up the computer again, this time expanding our search to include the historic district. Nothing, nothing, nothing—then David and I both leaned forward and said, “Ooh!”
Another brick house, this one built in 1926. It was to be shown by appointment only, and the realtor still hadn’t returned Hank’s phone calls by the time we left for dinner. Since the house was only a few blocks from the Jabbours’, Hank drove us past. We liked its looks. We checked out the neighborhood, cruised slowly by the house again, and were just about to turn toward the Jabbours’ when the other realtor called to give Hank his okay and the lock combination. The car crunched along the gravel drive, we walked up onto the big front porch, and the three of us went inside.
Once again, it was love at first sight. We belonged in this house. It had everything we’d asked for: a south-facing driveway, lots of big windows, a view of Pike’s Peak, about three miles from the Glen,set on a corner double lot with plenty of space between it and the only neighbor. Not a new house, definitely—but God knew that wasn’t what we really wanted. Instead, He gave us a charming old house whose owner had just renovated the interior, completely redoing the electrical system and plumbing, as well as creating two more bedrooms in the basement to cover any overflow from the upstairs guestroom.
Is that enough? Apparently not, because He also lavished small and detailed delights we hadn’t even asked for. The master bedroom has a window seat, which I’ve wanted since I was a little girl. In the master bath are the glass bowl sinks I’ve gazed at longingly in Lowe’s, and the kitchen has a breakfast nook where a guest can sit and talk to me while I cook. Even the utility sink I’ve always wished for in my laundry room . . . and when we got home, we discovered I wasn’t the only one with unvoiced desires. Kumari listened skeptically to our excited descriptions, until I mentioned the breakfast nook.
“It has a breakfast nook?” she said. “I’ve always wanted a breakfast nook!”
And so we were all in agreement, and we bought the house. As of February 27 it belongs to us—and with the closing, a new question came up. We were concerned about the house sitting vacant, a tempting target for vandals, until our mid-June move to Colorado Springs. David decided to ask if anybody at The Navigators headquarters knew of someone who needed a place to stay for those three months. I thought it was a silly idea, and said so: who would want to stay in an empty house?
As it turned out, not only did someone want to, but David’s question came as an answer to many months of prayer. Dan and Beth Johnson and their three small children needed a place to stay from March through May, when they take up their caretaking duties at Eagle Lake campground. Since their furniture is in storage in Colorado Springs, they could fetch beds and whatever else they needed.
If back in January our flight hadn’t been cancelled, or if the other realtor had called three minutes later, we wouldn’t have even seen the house. Instead, God orchestrated the timing perfectly so it could be a provision not just to us, but to the Johnsons and the people who’d been praying for them.
We haven’t even moved in yet, and the house is a blessing!
Now we’re praying that somebody in Norman will feel the same way about this one, and at exactly the right time. . . .
