Wonderstruck (13 page)

Standing before a metal address plate, I double-checked the map. I was surprised the Jewel of Africa lacked noticeable signage but hoped we’d still be rewarded for our hard-fought expedition. A receptionist and security guard sat inside the narrow entrance to the building.

“We’re here to see the Jewel of Africa,” I announced.

“You’ve come to the right place,” the receptionist replied. “How did you hear about us?”

“The map from the hotel,” I explained. “We followed the red diamond. But I’m still not sure—what is the Jewel of Africa?”

“You’ll see!” the security guard said. “Just sign in here.”

Sophia and I provided our names and addresses then followed the guard up a narrow stairway and through a locked door.

“This is the Jewel of Africa!” he said.

The room opened to rows of jewelry cases and shelves of sculptures, artwork, saltshakers, and T-shirts. The Jewel of Africa was a tourist shop. Our chests sank, and we stared at each other in silence.

How often do we encounter these seeming disappointments in life? Searching for an unfamiliar treasure that might be around the next corner, we miss out on the relationships, opportunities, and challenges God has placed in our midst.

Sophia and I both realized the journey together had still been valuable. We decided to celebrate our epic discovery by purchasing a few items to take home, but for me, one of the great jewels of my time in Africa was hearing details of Sophia’s story and how God breathed restoration in her through a kind professor. Sophia reminded me that no matter what
I
see, God sees life. The same life he breathes giving my soul a shape, my spirit a redeemed nature. Now I want to live with eyes wide open to the treasures around me so I can breathe anew in others.

To this day, we still chuckle about our adventure together. We later learned that the real Jewel of Africa isn’t any particular stone but an affectionate name for Cape Town, the city whose streets we’d explored. Without realizing, we’d been relishing the treasure all day.

T
WO
AND A HALF YEARS AFTER
our move to Juneau, Alaska, the time came for another transition—this time to Colorado. Having moved many times in my life, I find the process of uprooting both challenging and invigorating.

Living among stacks of crates, packing tape, and bubble wrap reminds me that being unsettled isn’t just an emotion. In the process of boxing photos and knickknacks, I tend to cruise down memory lane to relationships and events of years past. After weeks of sorting, compiling, and discarding, there’s always an interlude that I long for but somehow least expect, when I walk back into our home only to discover emptiness. Though baseboards still need to be wiped down and bathrooms cleaned, an eerie silence fills the place as the present shifts to the past—the home where we live becomes the home where we lived.

Then comes the moment I look forward to the most. After
handing the keys over to the landlord or new owner, I climb into the car and drive away. Any sense of sadness or loss is momentarily replaced by the exhilaration of endless possibilities. I feel wildly free. After an hour or so, the elation subsides, and I succumb to a new reality: I’m starting over again.

I felt all these emotions as we transitioned to Colorado. After months of scouring real estate websites, we found a two-story home on the outskirts of a tiny town known as Morrison, on the edge of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. The inside needed some updating, but the back porch opened to a breathtaking view of the mountains with the Denver skyline in the distance. The home sat securely outside our price range, but the real estate agent encouraged us to make a bid anyway. To our surprise, the offer was accepted.

The owner explained she was a follower of Jesus as we signed the final closing paperwork. At our first showing, by chance, she had been home. She told us that when she saw us walk through the door, she knew we were supposed to live at this address—a place she cherished. She reached across the closing table, grabbed my hand, looked into my eyes, and assured me we were meant to live in this home. Her words delivered divine delight.

Our furniture unpacked, our clothes tucked away, I knew the time had come to start building a new life. We began in our neighborhood. When a couple strolled past our driveway, we rushed out to greet them. As we worked in the yard, we waved and said hello to anyone who came out to retrieve their mail.
But the “Hey, neighbor” conversations never moved beyond anything surfacy and shallow.

The isolation intensified with Christmas. Aloneness became loneliness. I needed to become more proactive. Inspired by the holidays, I decided to spend a day baking one of my childhood favorites—challah. I kneaded and braided each loaf of lightly sweetened bread, traditionally eaten by Jews on the Sabbath, with loving care. I delivered a hot loaf to more than a dozen neighbors with a handwritten card, tossing in a bottle of red wine for good measure. I made sure to say a few kind words then left before I wore out my welcome. Though I doubt they ever knew, I wanted to greet my neighbors by blessing them and serving them a kind of communion.

When we returned home, I waited for responses like a schoolchild eager for the recess bell. A few days later, Leif discovered a single thank-you note on our front doorstep taped to a plastic plate of holiday cookies.

We shared even fewer conversations with our neighbors once winter blanketed everything with snow. After the New Year, I resolved to invite some acquaintances from church into our home for a meal. Serving grilled steak fajitas with fresh guacamole and homemade pico de gallo, we shared our story and listened to theirs. The evening came to a close with the promise of getting together soon, but we never heard from them again.

We reached out to several others from the church and neighborhood, even mixing up the menu to see if different
types of food helped people connect. The initial conversation around our dining room table required effort but improved as the meal progressed. By the time our guests left, I was hopeful we had made new friends, but none of our invitations were reciprocated.

I began to think Leif and I were less interesting than I thought we were. Or maybe we smelled skunky. Despite doing everything I knew to initiate relationships—inviting people into our home, serving them a fresh homemade meal, steering clear of any divisive topics, even gathering around a circular dining room table, which is supposed to be the best design for connection—we remained friendless.

Yet I refused to give up.
Making friends always takes time
, I assured myself. Deciding to give it another whirl, we welcomed Mark and Leslie, acquaintances from work, into our home. When they arrived, we scrambled to finish cooking the barbecued chicken. They didn’t seem to mind and joined us in the kitchen to chat as we sliced, diced, and scooped food into serving dishes.

“We’re ready!” I announced.

“What about the table?” Leif asked.

In our harried preparation, I had forgotten to set the formal dining room table.

“Let’s grab plates, dish up the food buffet style, and gather around the old table in the living room,” Leif suggested on a whim.

I shrugged, figuring nothing could lower our current track record. Mark and Leslie filled their plates and nestled into the leather couch. Leif plopped into his favorite chair. I sat cross-legged on the living room floor next to the old coffee table. That’s when the magic happened.

Conversation danced like the vivid warm flames of our fireplace. Topics shifted from work and play to theology and technology. We exchanged honest stories of heartaches and celebration. We laughed hard and often. The connection I craved in friendship was satisfied. More than anything I didn’t want the evening to end. I experienced the wonder of friendship, and I never wanted to let go.

Lying in bed after all we experienced, I reflected on what made that night together so special. I dismissed the food as an option. The sugary barbecue sauce burned one side of the chicken. The potatoes turned out too firm. Remembering stories about their close friends and family, I ruled out that our guests were lonely. What could it be?

Maybe the magic lay in the table.

The rustic tabletop that anchors our living room is an antique barn door made of hand-carved mesquite and marred by years of heavy use. One of the corners of the table boasts rusty barbed wire used to hold the frame together; another is rounded where
the door used to hinge. The table’s surface is wildly uneven, scarred by knots and holes. If you’re not careful you can easily tip a glass on one of the four railroad spikes that connect the four-inch-thick wooden slab to its base—a rustic yoke for oxen. The table receives support from two sets of bowed pieces of wood acting as legs. In one of the narrow pockets where the wood is hemmed together rests the remnants of previous owners, including an assortment of crumbs, a dried leaf, and a red poker chip I’ve never been able to extract.

I adored our living room table from the moment we purchased it. Having sold most of our furniture before leaving Alaska, the hunt for comfy couches and contemporary lighting began as soon as we arrived in Colorado. I spent most of my time looking for one-of-a-kind pieces on Craigslist and sorted through hundreds of ads each day looking for the treasures that would transform our house into a home.

One day I stumbled on a post for a brand-new California king-size mattress. I dialed the number and arranged for a time later that morning to connect, assuring Leif the drive would be well worth the effort. Unfamiliar with the area, I was surprised when the address led us to an expansive mountain getaway overlooking the valleys below. Walking up the stone stairs to the front door, I tugged on Leif’s sleeve, “We should ask if they’re selling anything else.”

“It’s just the mattress, honey,” he said.

“We should still ask,” I persisted.

When I posed the question to the grey-haired, middle-aged businessman who greeted us at the door, he pointed his fingers upward, looked in both directions, and declared, “Everything’s for sale!” Then he handed me a price list.

As an executive of a large telecommunications firm, he had been transferred to Los Angeles, where his wife was already purchasing furniture for their new glass house. In awe, we walked through room after room, handpicking everything we needed—from the brick-red bench now resting in our entryway to the armoire in our living room that looks like stacked luggage. But of all the pieces we purchased, I most prize the old, thick table we gathered around with Mark and Leslie.

The morning after our new friends joined us for dinner, I called Leif into the living room.

“There’s magic in the table,” I said, thumping the wooden frame with confidence.

“Maybe last night was a fluke,” Leif said with a skeptical eye. “Let’s invite more people over and try again.”

A few nights later we hosted Andy and April for dinner. When the time came to eat, we conveniently “forgot” to set the dining room table again and gathered in the living room instead. Once more the conversation brimmed—chockablock with life and laughter and authenticity. We felt the warmth of human companionship and delighted in the work God was doing in all of our lives. When we said goodnight at the end of the evening, we had a hunch we’d made some lifelong friends.