Grace Street

It's funny how a place - inanimate, silent, objective - can feel like a partner in my memory. The Grace Street house saw so much.

The week we moved in, I felt a peace there, a warmth. It didn't match the temperature of my marriage - I knew something was wrong with that. But I was certain that as we settled into a new season, all would be made right. This house felt like it could become home.

As I unpacked the boxes, the lies started to unpack as well. Those walls heard months of two voices, mostly mine. Unanswered questions, pleadings for connection, appeals for honesty, met with paltry deference at best, silence at worst.

“What's wrong? Why won't you look me in the eyes? What can I do? Who is texting you? Where are you going? Why were you gone all night?”

The truth came, and my foundation cracked. The Grace Street house stood steady.

The walls heard my wailing, now. Choked sobs of a young mother desperate for air. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The Grace Street house hosted my own personal hell, as I stared for hours at her ceilings, sobbed into her floors. She held no answers, but she held firm. Women streamed in and out of her doors. Meals, gifts, listening ears, comforting arms. A flood of sisters stood between me and despair.

Those next months were a lifetime. As the trauma gave way to grief, I was both soft and strong. My veneer stripped away, the Grace Street house got to see me. The real me. Tear washed, clear eyed, grace filled me. I suffered honestly, deep diving into the pain that occupied the place love once held in my heart. The Grace Street house watched me repack boxes of his things, as I sorted through years of memory and family, trying to make sense of what was his, what was mine. I had thought it was all ours.

My babies, oh my babies! Their wonder and perfection and innocence filled those rooms just as much as my anguish. We started to find a rhythm. The Grace Street house witnessed daily miracles as I found the strength to tickle them every day to make them laugh, to feed and bathe and read and rock them to sleep when they were with me. She saw my tears when my arms ached to hold them on nights they were gone.

That house surrounded me in moments of breakthrough. I found deeper faith. A love that lets go and forgives. A confidence that no matter what is done *to* me, I choose what comes *through* me, and I chose Jesus. The Grace Street house probably got saved, hearing me pray to such a sweet savior. I devoured the Word, immersed myself in worship. My life was held up moment by moment, crying out to the One who never left me. As He walked with me through the fire, I never felt more at home. Every time I turned onto our road and saw that street sign, I was reminded about His grace that never lets me go. One of my best friends, named Grace, lived a few houses down the road. Our boys would play together and she would listen and listen. Grace upon Grace, hemmed me in on all sides.

The Grace Street house echoed the first songs I had written in a decade. Healing washed over me as I poured out my heart, playing that out of tune old piano. The songs started to change from goodbye to longing for the next.

As I healed and strengthened and steadied, that house heard me laugh again. She started buzzing with more activity. Friends and church family and band mates came and went. My sister & her family of 6 moved in with us for a few months after their time in Canada, and we started to look for a bigger house. Not everything was about the divorce anymore. I got a second job and began to think about what was next for me. The mirrors in the house witnessed as I got all dolled up for my first date as a single mom. I bet she saw the light in my eyes - I knew I was a catch.

In God's amazing timing, I met Severin. As I reflect on my time in that home, I am so grateful that we started building our love while I was still there. The same walls that saw my life fall apart, saw it come back together. I already felt whole when I met him, but it didn't take long to see that God would make us stronger together than we'd ever been apart. The place where I have some of my most bitter memories is also the place where I have some of the sweetest.

Echos of God's grace followed me through years and miles and memories. The birth of my daughter, whose middle name is Grace, was another signpost of God's goodness. Unmerited favor, woven in and out of every season. I used to live in a house on Grace, and now a little firecracker bearing that name runs through the halls of this new home.

It's been years since I've seen that house, but I pray that whoever lives in that cute little bungalow on Grace Street is wrapped up in the same Grace that has followed me my whole life long.