My ability to get lost has been documented here and is indeed epic.  Now I’m learning that it’s also genetic.  When I lived in New York, The Mom alternated between telling people I lived in Chelsea, Soho, and the West Village (I never lived in any of these neighborhoods).  And last weekend, when she and The Dad were here for the birth of the Most Blessed Child (a.k.a. the first grandchild), I was witness again to the double-pronged source of my hopelessness with all compass points.  After a full day at the hospital, The Dad decided he was in the mood for some Carrabba’s.  It being 10 pm and this being the suburbs, The Husband and I worried that their kitchen may close imminently. The Parents had taken separate cars from Montgomery to Atlanta because we are Republicans and hate the environment, so now we had to coordinate the snappy arrival of three vehicles at Perimeter Village.  Add in the fact that The Mom had gotten mad at me when I told her that morning that her tiny rat dog could not, in fact, stay at our apartment…and in retaliation, she pulled up to Northside Hospital three hours later with a daughter-sized chip on her shoulder that prevented her from calling and getting directions to the proper parking lot.  So while the cars of The Husband and I and The Dad were all resting appropriately in the Women’s Center deck, The Mom’s was located somewhere near the helipad about five miles away.  So she and The Dad set off to find it, which they did, then tried to find his, which they did not.  Meanwhile The Husband and I were sitting on the same side of a booth at Carrabba’s trying not to eat the last two fried mozzarella sticks on the plate in front of us, failing miserably, and fielding just short of a dozen phone calls from The Dad, who had given up on finding his car and was riding with The Mom.  I was providing them directions for the trip from the hospital to the restaurant, which is the epitome of the whole blind-leading-the-blind principle, and they managed to take every wrong turn along the one-mile route.  Forty-five minutes later (it’s a five-minute trip), they entered Carrabba’s, whose kitchen would be closing in fifteen minutes.  The Husband and I had disposed of the mozz sticks and ordered drinks in their place.  Ahh…family.

I am blessedly not alone in navigating the world of real estate, which is the latest venture for The Husband and me.  After about twenty joint years of being renters, we are looking for a house to buy: a place where we don’t turn in a key to a landlord at the end of our stay, where I won’t hear random workmen’s voices while I’m taking a shower, where I don’t have a mailbox built into a wall.  This real estate business is really just one big game, but not a fun one like beer pong–this one has emotions and hopes and dreams attached, highs and lows and pluses and minuses and interest rates and loans and other things that make my eyes glaze over and my hands reach for the wine while The Husband pecks away at his computer and just takes care of the whole thing.  (Meanwhile, in between sips, I pull out the dustbuster and complain about How I Do Everything Around Here. Hmm…)  We’re in the midst of negotiating our way into a beautiful home that has pretty much everything we’re looking for except a sane seller’s agent, and each day we ping numbers back and forth like Venus and Serena to ultimately arrive at some conclusion that I wish would just happen already so we can begin the horrible process of moving and I can complain about that.

And then there’s the search for a church home, which we have finally completed. A place where grace is preeminent, reformed theology is preached, and coffee is provided.  (And it doesn’t hurt that they give Tim Keller books to visitors.)  We have endured the awkward phase of visitation for a couple of months now, knowing we’d never find another Redeemer but hoping for more than a KKK meeting hiding in a chapel, and our butts have graced seats all around the greater Atlanta area during our search.  We have shaken hands and dodged lunches and balanced our discomfort in new situations around new people with the hope that Jesus, who we are told loves us, didn’t forget to pick a place for us to sing about him every week.  And He didn’t.  But that means we’ve now entered the accountability phase, where our presence (or absence) is noticed, especially in a new church plant with about a hundred attendees, and there is a designated dent for our butts to fit into each week.

So we’re slowly finding our way into home and community and all that means.  It means no more sneaking around or leaving early, but it also means really knowing people.  It means big checks and constant maintenance, but it also means ownership.  It means building a life together, and not having to use GPS to find a place to stay each night.  It means that no matter how lost I am prone to get (thanks, Mom and Dad), home is waiting and I will find my way there…eventually.