I want my own bathroom. I am desperate for my own bathroom. But I share mine, see—with two beautiful little girls who like to make goofy faces in the mirror while I blow dry my hair. Their elbows and feet and toothbrushes get all up in my space and I start dreaming of a room of my own, with my own sink and my own toilet and my own counter top free of three dozen hair bands strewn across the surface and all over the floor.
As if I’m entitled to that.
First world problems, right? I know I know I KNOW this is so ridiculous, I mean, there are people across the planet—here in my own town, for crying out loud—who are homeless or hungry or squatting in a ditch to pee. At least I have indoor plumbing. So what if there’s a crowd fighting over who gets to go potty first?
This morning I told my husband I would chop off my right arm for a chance to have my own bathroom. That would be interesting, he said. I’d like to see that.
He keeps me grounded.
I have an explanation for all of this, which I’m not proud to share but I feel compelled to spill it anyway. We’ve been house hunting. For about three months now—after 14 years in our “five-year starter home” (ha) my hubby and I decided it was finally time to make a move. We both work from home. We could benefit from better office space, a more secluded yard where my husband can feel like he has an escape at the end of a stressful day. When home is both your workplace and your family place, the dynamics change. A fresh start would be good for our souls.
So after weeks and weeks of prepping our house to sell, replacing carpet and painting and decluttering every closet and cabinet, we finally chose a house to buy. It has the office space. It has the quiet yard. It even has a separate room for all the toys, with a door we can close and keep isolated from grown-up décor. And. It has THREE BATHROOMS! And a half! Heaven, I tell you!!
Except. After much prayer and agonizing, God is telling us—wait.
And you all know how fun it is to accept that answer. Bwaaaaaaaaa!!!!
So. Here I sit in faithfulness, wrestling my children for a little bathroom space. And it’s soooo easy to let my mind go there, you know? Well if we could buy the other house then the girls would have their own bathroom. I’d get to apply mascara without a little head popping under my arm to spit in the sink. I’d get to take a shower without someone walking in to flush the toilet.
And what happens then, when I allow myself to think these thoughts?
Discontentment. Of course. As if what I have is not enough. And it kills me because I know better.
“But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it” (1 Timothy 6:6–7).
A couple nights ago, my seven-year-old asked for a fruit rollup. We buy these special all-fruit organic treats at the grocery store every other week, intended for school snacks, and there are only eight in a box so when they’re gone, they’re gone—until the next store trip. My children know this. So when I told my daughter that I’d allow her to have the rollup as a bedtime snack but it was the last one, she hesitated.
“Wait. So, if I eat it now, then I won’t have one for snack time at school tomorrow?”
“Yes, that is correct. And it will be a week and a half before we buy more.”
“So I can choose to have it now—or I can wait.”
“Hmmmm.” I watched her little gears turning. “Nah. I’ll wait until school. I like having a treat to look forward to.”
For real, mothers. What first-grader possesses such restraint? In that moment my baby girl learned a lesson that I am apparently still struggling to embrace myself. Instant gratification feels victorious at the time. But sometimes waiting brings the greater reward.
“The LORD is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him” (Lamentations 3:25, ESV).
Sisters, I feel like I’ve been waiting on this next house for a looooong time. And we thought the wait was over. But God is saying—no. Wait some more. And we trust Him, we really do. We are fully confident that whatever comes next, after the waiting, will be way better than any benefits of grabbing the reward now. But it kind of stinks meanwhile, you know? Waiting is hard.
So please, I don’t need any of you to email me telling me how my life is perfect and get over yourself Becky because lots of people have real problems. I know that.
But I do want to encourage you that if you struggle—if you’re waiting on the next thing, whether it’s release from a burden or the chance to grasp a desire of your heart—you are not alone. God walks with you through the waiting. He is pleased with your obedience. And He doesn’t label you a lesser Christian for wrestling with it.
So while I wait, I’m going to love the home I’m in. You’re all invited to come over for fruit rollups, as long as you take off your shoes (new carpet, hey) and don’t mind standing in line to powder your nose. It’s not about the house, anyway, right? It’s about the people—and the God who dwells here among us.
He is sooo much better than three bathrooms.
And a half.
But who’s counting.
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