When Fear Says Lock It Down
Trust in the Lord
2009, Mbale, Uganda.
My rental contract was due to end in late May.
As soon as March rolled in my colleagues were rightly telling me I needed to find another place. The house I was in had been good: modern, secure, and in a nice location.
But the Global Financial Crisis, that had landed right when I first arrived in Uganda the previous October, had smashed the New Zealand dollar against the US dollar by roughly thirty percent. The money I’d expected to live on suddenly went a third less far.
Eating simply. Oatmeal. Rice. Avocados when I could get them.
I was also quietly declining some mission social events because I couldn’t afford restaurant prices. One of my fellow expat missionary deacons, a big tough generous American, figured out what was going on and started shouting me meals so I could partake in the mission’s social life. A kindness I still remember.
Meanwhile, I looked at a few rental houses in the same part of town. Some were expensive. A couple were barely affordable. They seldom came on the market and, when they did, got snapped up fast.
Most of my colleagues were getting understandably anxious on my behalf.
“You need to tie something down.”
“Get moving or you’ll be left with nowhere to go.”
Fair enough. I reckon nobody wanted me turning up at their place for a week to then accidentally become a six-month garage resident.
But every time I considered signing one of those rental contracts, I had the same check in my spirit.
No peace.
So I didn’t sign.
That was looking foolish by late April as May rushed closer.
Then, unexpectedly, I heard a couple of expat wives talking about a large missionary family working under another organisation. Because of some challenges with their children, they’d been advised to return home to the States for a year.
They rented a seven-bedroom house in Mbale.
Crazy large for just one bloke. Probably more bedrooms than I had matching pairs of socks.
Still, I felt a strong sense to chase it up. Like I finally had permission to move so I got in touch with them pronto. They were happy for me to house-sit the place for the following year. Didn’t even want to charge me rent. They simply wanted someone trustworthy in the house so their large family wouldn’t lose hold of the only perfect-sized house for them in the area.
It sat just over the hedge from a colleague I worked closely with, an American pastor and college professor. We could build a simple set of steps over the hedge rather than going out onto the road and a ten-minute walk around the block.
More importantly, the six empty bedrooms became a stopping place for colleagues travelling through Mbale on their way between our Karamoja station and Kampala. Instead of paying for hotels, my fellow missionaries could stay at my digs for a night, sometimes several nights.
So the house wasn’t merely provision for me.
It became provision for the wider work too.
God knew that family would be leaving. He knew I couldn’t realistically afford rent. He knew there was a house that could serve a much bigger purpose than just keeping me off the street.
He knew I didn’t need to sign the first contract fear put in front of me.
That doesn’t mean we should sit about waiting for a miracle while ignoring obvious responsibilities. I did look. I asked around. I went to viewings.
But I couldn’t manufacture peace about committing to something.
Sometimes courage looks like decisive action.
Other times it looks like refusing to be stampeded by other people’s anxiety. Even when you see their slight headshakes implying you’re being irresponsible.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and don’t lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.” Proverbs 3:5–6
The following year in the big house had its lonely moments. There were many nights when a nearby disco blasted wedding and party music until ridiculous hours, while I lay awake wondering what I was doing with my life.
One night, in my early forties and feeling very much alone in that seven-bedroom house, I prayed something simple.
“Lord, I really don’t want to live in a seven-bedroom house ever again unless I have a family of my own to share it with.”
A decade later, I did own a seven-bedroom home on three acres.
And I had a wife and four kids.
God is good.