Pounding on Closed Doors

Ever since my sophomore education class took a field trip to Chicago,  I thought I wanted to teach in the city. I loved the hustle, the noise, the people, the diversity, and the opportunity for impact. Urban schools were such a stark contrast from any of  the  cornfield-surrounded monotony I had previously known. I felt called, maybe, to teach in the city.

So to meet a man who was teaching in the city? Huge. To marry that man? What a dream. It felt like everything was falling into place. I applied at a school three minutes from his, so close to the White River that we could kayak to work together. We had found a church we enjoyed, people we knew well, and something about the roar of city life felt like the lifeblood of my teaching career. It seemed perfect. 

Sort of.

Around March, we started looking for houses. Joe and I spent hours driving around, envisioning our lives in "the house with the red door" or "the watermelon house on 58th." We scrolled Zillow as if there was buried treasure on the website. Houses would pop up and I would call Joe, set up an appointment with a realtor, drive from Taylor to Indy, again and again, over and over. 

House after house seemed to bring a glaring "no." Only moments after we would find a house online, it would switch from "For Sale" to "Pending." We once found a house at 9am only to hear it had been sold by 2. A competitive market sent prices soaring and my meager campus-tour-guide wages were no contribution to any competitive efforts. 

My cousin, a realtor, finally called us and pleaded: "Please don't buy a house right now. I'm not supposed to tell people that, but you're family. You will never, ever get out of it what you put in."

A door closed. I angrily deleted Zillow and swore off looking for houses. I was so tired of getting my  hopes up,  envisioning us in a cute little home, only to find offers four times what we could possibly pay. I was trying to force my will into every situation, seeking God's counsel but mostly telling him what needed to happen. 

And simultaneously, I started to feel like maybe the city wasn't even going to be the place for us. Even as we looked at houses, stories of Indianapolis murders screamed across news headlines. I analyzed neighborhoods for their safety factor and yet still, time and time again, didn't feel like I could go on runs or be alone at night in some places. 

I would go on prayer walks in Upland - the tiny town of 2,000 where Taylor calls home - and be overwhelmed by the smallness,  the quietness, the community feel, the sense of security and peace. I knew the ladies in their gardens. I watched kids from church play in the yard. It felt like home. And all of a sudden, these dreams of the city life were slowly growing dim in light of the tight-knit feel of communities outside Indianapolis. 

Could this be another door closed? But I had always said I felt called to the city. I only applied to teach in urban schools. Surely  God would change my heart and let me live out that calling...right?

Then, I got an email from one of the schools: rejected. Another email- another rejection. I became so discouraged and so convinced that something had to be wrong. I pounded on closed door after closed door, still trying to force my way, still thinking I knew best, still desperately trying to walk the path I wanted to pave for myself, and yet God. 

God, the all-knowing door closer, the one who intricately wove my innermost being, was actively setting the stage for a massive display of his wisdom and glory. I had only to sit back and watch. 

This is where our journey begins.