We're in good hands

I should spend more time listening to old men in wigs. Today I have in mind Matthew Henry, the 17th century biblical commentator whose perspective marbled through the church services of my childhood like fat through a steak. In his commentary of Matthew 6, Mr. Henry wrote, “There is scarcely any sin against which our Lord Jesus more warns his disciples, than disquieting, distracting, distrustful cares about the things of this life. … Our times are in His hand, and they are in a good hand.”

Oh yes, Mr. Henry. Of course. I know this. But why, Mr. Henry, do I so often disbelieve? Why, knowing the good hand of God, do I worry anyway?

The past few months have filled the lives of my husband and me with all the questions appropriate to a season of transition: Where will we work? What will we eat and wear? Most of all—part excitement, part plague—where will we live?

Through this year’s winter months, I made a brand-new self-discovery. I love to look at houses. I love to dream about where we might go next. The fact that we have lived in one of America’s most expensive counties for a year without a stove, oven, washer, or dryer only intensifies my dreaming. I’m eager to leave behind the part home, part camping trip that has been our first year of marriage. My heart chases the ideal I have spent months developing in my mind’s eye: a house in Pennsylvania with hardwood floors, a real yard, bright windows, and room enough for me to start painting again.

I would be ashamed to admit to you how many hours I actually spent looking for this house. I emailed realtor after realtor, checked Craigslist every day, kept careful lists of addresses, mentally stretched our price range farther than it should have gone. I presented my list of desires to God, but I did not really believe He would give me a good thing.

And then, do you know what happened? God gave us a house to live in—one we hadn’t even looked for. A pastor-friend of a pastor-friend heard through the grapevine that we were hunting and offered for rent his white Cape Cod. The price was more than perfect, and its builder obviously read my list before he nailed in the first board: Hardwood floors, bright windows, a real yard, room for me to start painting again. And to fulfill the “more than you ask or think” clause, God crowned this sundae with an impossible cherry: The house has green shutters. “That’s it,” I told my husband as we departed from our first viewing of the house. “We will have to call it Green Gables.”

I feel, of course, like L.M. Montgomery’s Anne Shirley, who fell instantly in love with her own green-accented house. In all my gladness, I cannot forget to stop and thank God. “Thank you, thank you, God,” I say. “My times are in your hands. And you have good hands.”