Once upon a time, we lived in a tiny house. And in that tiny house, we hosted over one-hundred guests at a time for celebrations, thirty-two little ones (not all at one time) for parents needing respite, numerous relatives coming to catch up, and our girls’ many friends who stayed for a night—or a month.
In the old abode, space was limited; no oversized furniture possible. When we needed the pack-n-play for a baby, we wedged it into the room that served as both guest quarters and office. When it was set up, though, one side touched the desk chair and the other side pressed against the double bed, so no one could scoot around that portable crib. As for the ceilings, our very tall neighbor had to dip his head under our doorways, dodge our hanging kitchen light, and limbo his way through our basement.
Once upon these times, though, I stroll through our new house. It’s still under construction, but I consider its progress and possibilities. Someone expanded the residence in every way from what it once was. Each bedroom is larger than the living room in our old digs, and in the main areas, the ceiling is vaulted. The square footage bests that of our former situation by nearly three times, and I peer out the windows to a back yard that’s three times the size of our old one too.
We were called out into a spacious place, and I’ll never forget it.
Later, I sit with that idea, the Life Book open on my lap.
He brought me out into a broad place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.
I feel the weight of the unearthly, the lightness of truth, and my eyes fill. I know our future—the promise of the broad place—is our current dwelling too, and it isn’t just for us. And neither are the rescue and the delight.
Flicka watches me from nearby. I share what I see, and her gaze softens.
“When ancient words hit different,” she says.
I laugh a little now, but she’s right.
I have a recurring vision of our new home: Husband stands at the stove, cooking for the masses, while I wipe down counters, smiling. I already have memories there, and we haven’t even moved in yet.
My mind moves on to the world’s tight spots. I think of the struggles everywhere: addiction, poverty, abuse, bondage, depression, and more—the opposite of what’s in The Broad Place. So, what becomes of those squeezed and cramped and suffocated by life?
We’ll invite them to enter and abide with us in the roominess.
There’s space for everyone.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.