My life has rarely moved in straight lines. I was born into a family that crossed borders as easily as other families crossed town. Home was where in the world my parents lived. I learned early how to adapt, how to read people and cultures, and how to begin again. I came into the world in Lebanon and grew up mostly in Switzerland. As a teenager I left home for boarding school in Germany. I moved to the US for my Junior year of College. 

As a single adult, I raised two adopted daughters while working full time in the corporate world. I was often exhausted and overwhelmed, and the weight only grew heavier as one daughter struggled with serious attachment and health challenges. There were many seasons when I was simply trying to survive and hold our lives together. Slowly my own health faltered and I had to go on disability. Between my own medical needs and my daughter’s frequent hospitalizations, my savings were drained and my daily expenses became unsustainable. We moved to Bangkok not for adventure but because it was practical. Healthcare was affordable and survival was possible there. 

In 2019 my youngest and I returned to the U.S. for what was meant to be a short summer visit. We began our summer visiting friends in Seattle on our first stop stateside. The stress of Thailand and raising two daughters with one seriously ill had fully caught up with me. Once I slowed down, I realized how sick I was. We paused in Washington State, staying in a tiny mountain town in the North Cascade mountains. My body felt fragile. Everything felt uncertain.

While there I was hospitalized with a pulmonary embolism at the same time my father, in Arizona, succumbed to his 16 year battle with Multiple Myeloma. I was devastated because I could not be at his bedside in his last days. It was a couple of months until I could travel for his memorial. By then, my mother was struggling with her own health

When my daughter and I came to Arizona for my dad's memorial I didn't know where we would live next. My mother and I discussed the possibility of me moving into her home. I needed her and she needed me. Being 15 when I left home and now returning felt healing, helpful, and humbling. What was meant to be a short season became six years.

With steady companionship, consistent meals, and attentive care, my mother’s health improved for a few years and slowly my own body strengthened too. I went from barely being able to walk without assistance, struggling to eat, unable to hold coherent daily conversations, living with constant migraines and other debilitating symptoms, to participating in life again. Healing became my full-time work. As the years passed, my aging mother’s health became increasingly unstable and towards the end she was in and out of the hospital often.

During the last year of her life, a persistent question lingered: What would happen when she was gone? Where would I live? My parents had spent their lives as missionaries and did not leave behind financial security. I had no savings to cushion the future. Affordability and healthcare had once pushed me overseas. I assumed they would again.

Just a couple months before my mother passed away in March, I sensed a nudge to search for housing that I could afford and use as an investment property that would allow me to continue receiving medical care and maintain stability here in the USA. By this time I had a good understanding of how to manage the genetic condition that I finally understood was causing my symptoms. 

Shortly after my mom died, I found one small home in the East Valley. Just one. It had been sitting on the market as the least expensive home of its kind. I assumed it would be quickly snatched by a buyer who wasn't afraid of a project or an investor, but when the lock was jammed and I couldn't see it until several days later, I wondered if buyers hadn't had the patience to wait to view the listing. When I finally stepped inside, something settled in me. It seemed to have good bones, it felt solid, it felt comfortable and safe. However, as much as I liked the house, I could not move forward until my mother’s house was sold.

In June, still unsure where in the world I should settle, I took a road trip and on the long stretches of highway, I had space to think and ask God where He wanted me to live. My family was scattered across the world. I had lived in so many places. Where was I meant to stay? Was staying in the U. S. even possible? On that long trip I asked God plainly to save that short sale home for me if he wanted me to stay in AZ.

The next day, the house disappeared from the MLS. I assumed it was sold. I told myself, there's my answer. I resumed asking where else in the world I should begin again. The prospect of starting over felt exhausting and overwhelming and I prayed for God's peace.

Several weeks later I drove through the neighborhood and surprisingly I noticed that the house was still listed with a "Price Reduced" sign in the yard. I felt like God had perhaps saved the home for me after all. 

Then, after months on the market, my mother’s house finally received an offer. I immediately contacted my realtor and told her about the sign in the yard of the short sale home. The realtor informed me that since it was a short sale it would take many months and complicated transactions to become mine. We both knew I didn't have a place to live or the time to wait for that logistical process. 

However, she called back within 45 min to let me know the unexpected had happened: the buyers had backed out!! Not only that, the bank said if I matched the bank-approved sale price I could close within weeks rather than many months to a year. Two previous buyers had walked away at the last minute. There were no explanations for why. What a moment of surprise that 8 months after seeing this home it appeared God had saved it for me.

My mother’s home was days from closing. The market was slowing. And then the Government shut down. The bank owned property I was buying had been a HUD loan that required government approval to be processed. More unknown delays. I had nowhere to go and no money. The prospect of homelessness seemed very possible.

That Sunday, I was moving out of my mom’s house without a place to live. I ran into a friend at church who was going through the difficult loss of her father and was very lonely. I told her of my predicament and she offered to let me stay in her home at no cost. What an incredible answer to prayer! 

Two weeks later friends and acquaintances helped me move into my new home, the short sale in the east valley. We moved in stages: packing, lifting, hauling, carrying. I found myself surrounded by people who showed up to help me in countless ways. Thank you Crossroads!!

When I look back on this past year, I do not see one dramatic rescue. I see a pattern. Provision did not come in excess. It came in increments. Just enough. Just in the nick of time.

For someone who has spent a lifetime moving between countries, unsure where I belonged and longing for roots, I found a home. Not because I forced it into existence, and not because I controlled the outcome, but because step by step what I needed was provided.

And when I trace the thread backward, I see that even in uncertainty, I was never without what I needed to continue.