I love our home. It has served our family well for the past twenty years and holds more memories than I can count. When we bought it in 2006, we always intended to remodel it. Then life happened. By 2021, we joked that we were on year fifteen of our ten-year remodel plan. Over the last few years, though, the joke became less funny. We would get close to remodeling, only to watch the dream move out of reach again. Meanwhile, God was doing some remodeling of his own—in our marriage, our finances and, especially, our hearts.
Last year, with some significant home maintenance decisions looming, we decided it was finally time. After a few disappointing starts and stops, we believed we were on our way. This summer, we expected to submit plans to the city. Then came the final-final bid. It was a number we simply couldn’t get peace about.
And with it came all the emotions: disappointment, sadness and fear that maybe we would never create the home we had imagined—a place for holiday dinners, overnight guests, respite for people we love and, someday, grandkid camps. There was also regret.
I knew this road. I had traveled it before. The old me would have stayed there for a long time, eventually adding anger, blame and resentment to the disappointment.
But the new me—the new me took it to God.
I have come to believe that we are meant to live in an ongoing relationship with God—speaking and being spoken to. But I’m also learning that how I approach that conversation matters. 2 Chronicles 7:14 says, “If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and heal their land.”
Humility. Seeking his face. Turning.
Dallas Willard writes in Hearing God, “I fear that many people seek to hear God solely as a device for obtaining their own safety, comfort and sense of being righteous.” Ouch. Because for much of my life, that was me.
Looking back at this long house saga, I can see the difference between my prayers then and my prayers now. For years, even when I thought I was seeking God’s voice, I was often seeking what he could give me—reassurance, self-preservation, a way out of discomfort or simply the outcome I wanted.
This time, I wanted to hear God even if he didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. I wanted to stop treating God like a genie and prayer like a transaction in which I presented my problem and waited for divine instructions.
G. Campbell Morgan wrote, “Wherever there are hearts waiting for the voice of God, that voice is to be heard.” So I tried to quiet my heart enough to listen. My husband heard: hold the house lightly. Wise words for both of us. I heard something different.
This summer, I had watched our son wrestle through some disappointments and unknowns. Again and again, I encouraged him to trust God. Trust his timing. Trust him even when he couldn’t see what God was doing.
And in my quiet time, I sensed God turning my own words back toward me: Do you believe what you’ve been saying? Do you really trust me? Well played, God.
For so long, I thought being a “good Christian” meant God would tell me exactly what to do and then I would obediently do it. I was listening for instructions so I could perform. Perform to please. Perform to protect myself. Perform to get what I wanted.
But Willard writes, “The watchword of the worthy servant is not mere obedience but love.” That changes the conversation. Do I love God? Do I believe he loves me? Can I sit with him without demanding an answer? Can I trust him when his answer is different from mine—or when there seems to be no answer at all? Because if I truly believe that I am loved, I don’t have to listen from a posture of fear. “Perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18).
I still don’t know exactly what will happen with our house. But I have peace. I’m holding the house—and my plans for it—lightly. Maybe the greatest gift of hearing God isn’t receiving directions that change our circumstances. Maybe it is receiving a word that changes us.
And that, I’m learning, is the heart of listening.
Lord, teach me to listen. Forgive me for the times I have come to you more interested in what you could do for me than in simply being with you. Give me a humble heart that seeks your face before your direction. Help me trust that you are good when I understand what you are doing and when I don’t. Quiet the fear, pride and self-protection that make it difficult to hear you. More than answers, let me desire you. And whatever you speak, give me a heart secure enough in your love to receive it. Amen.
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