“I’m right,” I insisted, anger edging my voice. Hands trembling, I twisted the damp Kleenex in my lap. Pausing to look up, I met the gazes of the women surrounding the edges of the living room.
Soberly, momentarily silent, they met my gaze. As I looked around, I had the sudden ugly, panicked feeling that maybe I wasn’t right. And if that was true, then life as I knew it was about to change.
Oh, we’d been talking about moving to the Twin Cities for months. At first, it was a passing thought, a wish and a prayer sent up on days when ice coated the highways or road construction added an hour or two to Tim’s commute. But after a few years of driving 120 miles round-trip each day just to get to the edges of the territory he covered for work, he was convinced we needed a change. Me, not so much. My work was in St. Cloud. My friends were in St. Cloud. My family was in St. Cloud. Why would he want to take that away from me? But voicing my anger and fears to women I trusted, the same women I saw every Saturday morning at Bible study — women who knew me well — didn’t give me the validation I had hoped to hear. Why was no one agreeing with me?
Bewildered, I went home. The next time the topic arose, I begrudgingly told Tim we could start house-hunting. I envisioned it as a slow process, with lots of time for me to adjust to the idea. Instead, he was ready to list our house the next day, and eagerly lined up houses for us to look at in the Cities.
Outwardly calm, I continued to sulk on the inside. The houses were ugly. They were too big, too small, not worth the money, had no yard, had too much yard, or were just too far away from my family. And then we found a house — one I loved — and suddenly, the prospect of moving didn’t seem so far-fetched. We found a location that suited us, halfway between our current location and the Cities. It was a compromise.
More than four years later, I’m SO GLAD we moved. We have a cozy home with a tree-filled backyard that brings me peace each time I see it out the window. We have wonderful neighbors. We live in a small town, but have easy access to the city. We found a church we love. We have life-long friends that we “do life” with, sharing burdens and joys. Life is better, richer, more fulfilling than it was before.
When we lived in St. Cloud, I had prayed for those things, but I had wanted God to answer them my way.
It’s humbling to me now, thinking of how in my righteous anger, I was so sure that moving was a mistake. How I could not have possibly imagined what God had in store for us. And I remember how, in years past while sitting in the pews at First Baptist Church, I heard the benediction intoned with equal parts reverence and jubilation every Sunday morning:
“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen” (Ephesians 3:20-21).
Looking back, the words ring true. More than all we ask or imagine. Isn’t that worth a compromise? A move? Some humility? A willingness to learn that I’m not always right?
I can admit now that on one particular Saturday morning, I was terribly wrong. And I’ve never been happier to say so.