“No, I don’t want to move,” I argued. It was an ongoing dispute. How I loved my little house with its pale blue siding, bright blue doors and wide white deck. It overlooked a lake and I had often stood mesmerized watching the clouds reflected in its water. And each tiny plant in the back yard was like one of my children and I watched them grow with the same anticipation.
“Well, let’s at least look around,” said my disgruntled husband. It was obviously a no-win situation so I reluctantly agreed.
So the vigil began—checking the condos, new and old. But the more I looked, the more determined I became that I would not leave this house. I had painted its interior three times in the years we had owned it. I had laid every stone in the rock garden at the front. How could I leave it? But I was beginning to weaken.
Some condos on the north side of town were especially inviting. They were in a park-like setting and boasted tall trees and cultured lawns. Several units were not yet built and the south corner would offer a marvelous view of the mountains.
“I will pray about it,” I advised my husband, but my heart was aching the way it had when my last child left home.
The next morning I stood at my kitchen window and looked out; what a view, so pretty and so familiar. Then I opened the door under the sink to throw something into the garbage can and slammed it shut in horror.
“I think I saw a mouse!” I yelled. I hate mice!
“Well look again,” my blustering brave husband hollered.
I carefully, opened the door and a tiny frightened mouse darted out and into the living room.
“Catch him!” I yelled but there was no catching that mouse. He had disappeared.
The next day I scoured the local hardware store and bought every conceivable method of catching mice that was invented. My daughter gave me a contraption like a little box that she said was the answer. I tried it for a week and finally gave it back insisting it didn’t work. Her husband threw it into the back seat of his car and forgot it until he noticed an unpleasant smell. I guess I had caught one and hadn’t noticed it.
“The mouse was so small, I couldn’t see it in there,” I apologized.
And the warfare continued. We were up to four and still counting. Finally, I capitulated.
“Okay,“ I said. “I’ll look at the place on the hill and I guess we better take that south lot before someone else does.”
What else could I do? I’d prayed and God had sent me mice.
