a year ago.

A year ago, just as the South Carolina mornings turned crisp and the trees were tinged with flaming orange, we signed a lease and moved into a house in downtown Columbia. We brought with us a mound of suitcases and a few storage bins pulled from the recesses of my parents’ and brother’s attic. Oh and books. Lots and lots of books.

Our furniture and bedding and dishes were somewhere in the ocean on their way from Asia so we pieced together a mish-mash of borrowed, hand-me-down, and Ikea pieces those first two months. The house felt a little barren with its rug-less floors, its futon/sofa and Tupperware bin-end tables. The walls were an interesting assortment of colors. There was no dishwasher, a battered enameled farm sink that had seen better days, and a whole host of roaches to kill every day.

But the ceilings were high, the crown molding and big-silled windows charming, and there were built-in bookcases in the living room. Everybody who walked in the front door smiled and said, “This is a great house!” There was a fire place and sleek dark wood floors, and a sunlit kitchen. But in our opinion the best feature by far was the sprawling front porch tucked behind privacy hedges. Many cups of coffee and glasses of wine were sipped on that porch, many evenings listening to the traffic of Main Street, many laughter-filled conversations and play dates with friends.

A year ago we moved into that house in faith, with no guarantee at all that our dream of starting a church in Columbia would come true. Some people thought we were crazy. We probably were. Mostly, we were terrified and excited and stressed and trying to trust God one day at a time. And we were very happy.

Little Benton Street house, our family is forever grateful to you, our healing house. We miss you.