Rent to Own or Own to Rent?

A few months ago, much to everyone’s surprise (including my own), I decided I was ready to buy a house.

I’ll give you a few seconds to recover from the shock…

Allison, who loves traveling and can’t make up her mind if she wants to live in the US or Cambodia (just kidding—but sometimes it feels like that!), who fears long-term commitment and always wants to keep her options open, that Allison decided to buy a house.

After a few short weeks of studying real estate, praying, finger-biting waiting, trusting (thank God for my realtor—if you’re in Waco, holler for a 5 star rec), and stressing, I found myself standing in my new home. What I didn’t know was that buying was only the beginning of the stress of homeownership.

Before I moved in, I wanted to take care of a couple projects to update the house. I had about a month before I had to move out of my old place, so I set to work painting and, with plenty of help, redoing the floors.

I spent entire days by myself in the house painting, taping, cleaning, and painting some more…and some more…and some more. After work, I headed straight for the new house (okay, I may have stopped to grab a Dr. Pepper or two first) and plodded away for hours before going back home to sleep and prepare for another long day.

Now that I owned the house and wasn’t just renting, I felt a new burden of responsibility. And for someone who loved the carefree, pick-up-whenever-you-want life of renting, the emphasis lie heavily on the word burden. Repairs, updates, aesthetics…I was the one who would have to do it. And I wanted the house to be stunning.

After all, when I closed on the house, I was fully intent on using this new space to honor the Lord. I wanted this place to be perfect, to be beautiful, and to be inviting. Almost subconsciously, as I found more things in need of repair, I became frantic in my work on the house. I was trying to make the house perfect because it was dedicated to the Lord. I wanted the best for Him.

But frankly, I was overwhelmed. I began to question my decision to buy a house. It was more expensive than I had anticipated, more time-consuming than I had guessed, and more energy-draining than I had ever planned. And every day, I was finding more things in need of repair.

It was on one of these long days that I found myself standing on the ladder, paint roller in hand (boy do those things give you a work out!), exhausted. I stared at the color smudged on the ceiling, and I asked aloud that God would help me figure out what to do as the owner of this house and not the renter.

As I prayed, I heard Him whisper to my soul.

I heard Him remind me that all things belong to Him. I heard Him remind me that we are all stewards, every one of us, whether we own or rent or live somewhere for free.

A weight lifted from my shoulders as I realized the burden of homeownership did not, in fact, rest on me. It was the Lord’s. He had asked me to tend to this new house, but the responsibility was neither more nor less than it had been as a renter.

At the core, we are all renters.

God asks us to steward the breath in our lungs and the brains in our heads and the legs we stand on. Everything around us is the Lord’s, and we are renters. We are tenants even of our own bodies.

With this realization comes great relief! The renter has an ease of mind because there is little to no responsibility for upkeep, mortgage payments, insurance, taxes, pest control, etc. In the world’s eyes, I “own” a home and the land it sits on, but truly, it is the Lord’s—it always has been and always will be. I will do my best to take care of it and make it beautiful, but in the end, it is not mine.

That day on the ladder, as I painted and painted, I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude. The home didn’t need to be prepared perfectly because I had dedicated it to the Lord. It was already the Lord’s. He wasn’t looking for a breath-taking open house experience nearly as much as He was looking for an open and humble heart.

He owns it all, yet each day He gifts us more than we could ever comprehend. He gifts us life without demanding rent, when we praise Him and when we curse Him. He gifts everything to us, even His Son’s very life…even relationship with the God we shunned.

Daily, we have the choice to recognize these gifts and praise this God—this merciful and gracious God!—as the One we want to reside and be glorified in our homes, these homes He rents to us.

Reentry: Still on the Road

It's no secret I've had a rough time in reentry the past few months. I washed my clothes by hand and hung them up to dry for weeks, and I binge-watched Netflix and drank Dr Peppers by the case to make up for the time my favorite soda and I were apart.

Now, several months (and seasons of Bones) later, here I am.

Life in Waco is falling into a pleasant rhythm, and for the most part things have calmed down both externally and internally. However, every once in a while waves of grief and feelings of missing Cambodia hit me rather suddenly, like a flash flood with no forecast of rain. I'm still learning to navigate these surprise storms. Recently during one of these waves of grief, I heard a song my friend Marc wrote called "Heading Home." The song begins, "There’s a groaning, an aching in my bones/There’s a longing in my heart to find a home." As I listened, it seemed to gather up within me leftover remnants and threads of reentry--the values I've learned, the pain, the hope, and the lessons I'm still learning now--and place them in a bundle right in the center of my heart.

The lyrics didn't tie up the loose ends or weave the threads into a stunning tapestry. No, they simply brought all the frayed fibers to one place so I could see them. All of them, in their varied colors, sizes, shapes and textures, all at once. The hurts and hopes and tears and shouts, all at once.

All of them, all at once, were beautiful. I no longer felt the need to tug at this thread or change the color of that one. With all their quirkiness and shortcomings and distinct characteristics, they were beautiful.

Stock photo from Adobe

While I quieted my soul and listened to this song, I realized a few things. First, even though I'm settling down into life in Waco, I'm still heading somewhere. For a woman with an unshakable travel bug coursing through her veins and wanderlust written on her heart, knowing I'm still traveling is a comforting notion. (However, I am excited for no more reentry processes when the journey ends!!)

Second, the place I'm heading is to be with Jesus in person. To have more of Jesus, to spend more time in His presence, to know Him more. This lines up with one of my greatest prayers and desires lately, which has been to want Jesus more than I want a country, and for my loyalty to be to Him and not to a culture. Home is a Person, not just a place.

Third, I realized the journey home can be beautiful in itself. A road trip by myself through the Texas countryside is one of my favorite things. More than getting to the destination, I enjoy simply driving, soaking in the landscape and praying or listening or singing until my throat hurts. I may be homesick, and reentry may be hard, and I may not truly arrive home for a while, but the journey home can still be beautiful and is uniquely qualified for enjoyment.

As I sat examining this bundle of threads and these lessons learned, I stopped struggling for a moment. Instead of trying to reconcile two very unique cultures and countries, I simply began to thank God for each lifestyle and cultural difference as it came to mind.

Thank You for the communal way of living in Cambodia, and thank you for the individuality of American people.

Thank you for rice and fish and the Mekong. Thank you for microwaves and refrigerators and ovens and pre-packaged food.

Thank you for my students in Cambodia, for the church, for the rhythm of life there; thank you for the job I have in the States, for my coworkers, for healthcare here.

I could keep going for hours, but the point is gratitude humbles me and reminds me how beautiful this world is, even with its pain and frayed edges and tangled up threads. In some way, all those worn out threads create something beautiful in their messiness. I cannot and will never be able to make sense of the disparities between countries and the heartache that hits every time I leave a country. Yet when my focus is on the Maker of cultures rather than on the cultures themselves, I find rest. I don't have to stress about reconciling the differences and similarities and roughness and tangles—because no matter what, I'm still on the road, and I'm still heading home.