If there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s that life doesn’t always unravel in a straight line. Sometimes it comes apart in jagged pieces, one after another, until you’re left standing in the middle of whatever remains, trying to remember how to breathe.
That’s where I found myself at the end of October.
I’ve been writing about the strange limbo we were in — packing quickly because we thought we had two weeks to move out, then slowing down because we unexpectedly had another month. We were holding our breath, stepping lightly around our landlord’s mood swings, trying to keep the peace while preparing for a new beginning we had prayed so hard for.
That new beginning was supposed to be an 850 square foot house.
Small, yes.
Different, yes.
But it was supposed to be ours.
A place to land after a year of stress, searching, and fear.
And then one morning, everything changed.
We were driving by the house — the house we believed was waiting for us — when I saw it.
A sign.
A bright, blunt, impossible sign planted in the grass.
FOR SALE.
No warning.
No call.
No message.
No explanation.
Just a sign where a future used to be.
We reached out immediately.
No response.
Not a word.
It was as if the entire agreement had been swept away and we weren’t worth the courtesy of being told.
The shock was instant, but the heartbreak came in waves.
This wasn’t just about losing a house.
It was about losing the only path we had.
And suddenly, the fear rushed back in like a flood.
What now?
Where would we go?
How fast would we have to leave?
How do you plan for a future when the door you were walking toward is slammed shut without warning?
Our current landlord had already been pressuring us to leave.
So I did the only thing I could do — I asked her for more time.
Just a little.
Just enough to figure out what came next.
She said yes.
And I’m grateful for that yes… but every conversation since then has gotten shorter, tighter, more strained.
She wants us out before Christmas.
And time is slipping fast.
For a moment — longer than I want to admit — it looked like we were going to be in a tent.
We checked campgrounds.
They only allow tents for one week at a time.
With no car, bouncing from place to place simply wasn’t possible.
The next option was a shelter.
My heart broke at the thought of taking my mother there.
At the thought of my uncle there.
At the thought of myself there.
I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore.
And then — when everything looked impossible — a lifeline came.
One of my uncle’s friends heard what was happening and told us he had a place.
It wasn’t much, he warned us.
Not really ready to live in.
But it was something.
We went to see it.
Seven hundred square feet.
Holes in the walls.
Things broken.
Things missing.
A long list of repairs before it could ever feel like a home.
My mother cried when she walked in.
Not out of relief — but out of disappointment, exhaustion, fear.
I cried, too.
More than I thought a person could cry.
Not because I’m ungrateful…
but because sometimes the blessing comes wrapped in a reality that is harder than you feel equipped to handle.
Still — it was a roof.
It was shelter.
And it was the only option between us and the street.
So we said yes.
And then the electricity became its own battle.
The house has two meter boxes — something leftover from who knows how many past changes — and getting power turned on has been a nightmare of paperwork, confusion, and waiting.
Meanwhile, our time here is running out.
I plan to be out of this house and into the little one by December 21st — electricity or not.
The pressure is heavy, but staying here past what has been offered doesn’t feel right.
I’m trying to honor the grace we’ve been given, even as it grows thinner.
This isn’t the story I wanted to tell.
This isn’t the home I dreamed of.
This isn’t the ending to a long season of searching that I pictured.
But it is the place God provided when every other door closed.
It came in the last possible moment, when our options were gone and our strength was gone with them.
I don’t understand the timing.
I don’t understand the detour.
I don’t understand why the house we had was taken away without a word.
But I do know this:
God does His best work in broken places.
Sometimes the blessing looks like one last open door when every other one has been shut.
Sometimes the miracle looks like a place that needs work but keeps you off the street.
Sometimes grace isn’t pretty — it’s just enough.
And for now, enough is what we have.
Enough to keep going.
Enough to take the next step.
Enough to start again in a little house with holes in the walls and faith held together with trembling hands.
I am tired.
I am overwhelmed.
But I am not abandoned.
And that is the truth I am hanging onto.
“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
Each day, I am learning again what it means to trust Him in the middle of uncertainty.
Each day, I take one more step toward becoming unstuck.
