Turns out, it needed that love. After painting the walls up to the ceilings, we waged a lengthy war with the grass. Till, plant, die, repeat. Until one fall the tiny green blades stuck around for good, and we retreated to our small concrete patio in victory. 

From then on, every new project narrated our story. A fence enclosed the puppy that bounded into our lives. Not long after a room renovation followed my growing stomach as our guest bed lost out to a crib and a swing. A twin bed made room for another tiny guest, and eventually our grass cushioned a swing set and three tiny pairs of feet. 

When we signed those papers, we didn’t know about the spring flood waters that would rush through our yard and try to squeeze through our foundation. We couldn’t foresee the tree that breathed its last and came crashing across our fence. It was several years before our little concrete patio revealed its secret plan to crush and block our pipes. But I didn’t know a lot of things then. 

I didn’t know the tears of pain I’d cry while rocking my first in the middle of the night. I couldn’t foresee the suffering one small infection would bring between those walls. The trials of our lives hadn’t yet revealed their plans within this one acre of land. 

But isn’t that the way of it? We all crouch down at every starting line, clueless as to what lies ahead. The unknowns start with our first cry and extend to every beginning to come: The turn of the tassel, a job acceptance, the walk down the aisle, two pink lines, or an empty home. What will come of our own piece of land called life? Like Abraham, we hold only a promise. 

God told him, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you” (Gen 12:1) God promised a family, nation, and blessing. So Abraham shoved that promise along with all his worldly belongings into a pack and left. Turns out, he needed that promise, too. Soon famine and family difficulties pressed in. Battles and bloodshed and the devastating grief of barrenness lay waiting. 

Maybe the land wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Have you felt that too? Many of us wish for another. We peer over the fence and crave the life that’s not ours. We’re not sure the lines really have fallen for us in pleasant places (Ps 16:6). 

But like Abraham, we can hold on to the promise, because that promise isn’t just about the dirt we squish between our toes in our backyard. It stretches farther than the bed we weep in at night. It embodies more than the eighty-odd years on this earth. 

Hebrews tells us Abraham lived with faith that God was building him a better land. This one wouldn’t be ruined by famine or jealous kings. Disease, pain, and infertility couldn’t touch a soul there. Abuse, loneliness, and death would flee from it. For this city has the strongest foundations, and its designer and builder is God (Heb. 11:10). The reason those lines really do fall in pleasant places is because that beautiful inheritance awaits you and me. 

We’ve not yet received our inheritance, but God carries us as sons and daughters while we wait.  In the midst of trouble, we can grip tight to our Father’s many more promises. Every one of them is true. We can know for sure that he will never leave us and that nothing can ever separate us from his love (Deut 31:8, Rom 8:38). We’re guaranteed his comfort while we mourn and can rest assured in his sovereign power (Mt 5:4, Eph 1:11).  

Through these promises, God seeds stalks of hope and redemption in the dirt of our lives. Sometimes we’ll find them in the words of a friend or the care of a church family. We’ll unearth them in the pages of the Scriptures or the hymn on Sunday morning. The small joys of life beside the darkness of our grief remind us that God continues to plant a harvest of sweet amidst the bitter. Each one whispers of the promised land to come. 

–

My feet scuff against the grayed asphalt. Beside me ribbons of green wheat dance in the wind. As I run, the tip of my house begins to rise into view. Light beige siding, white trim, gravel driveway, aged fence. I pump my arms in tandem with my feet, and the image grows larger as I take in the home I’ve lived in for twelve years. 

I wish I could change some parts. But on days like today, I see the lone tulip stretching proudly at the feet of my mailbox. I hear the laughter of my kids biking on the road behind me, and I see the place where a harvest of goodness grew among thorns. 

Someday I’ll walk in the land of perfect peace. For now, I’m clutching the promise and learning to love the gifts in my little piece of land.