The snow was well past my knees, and icicles were forming on my son’s drippy nose. It was bitterly cold that day, but we had a serious case of cabin fever—in more ways than one. So we bundled up, toddlers in tow, and headed outside for some fresh (albeit frozen) air, to chase a dream.

Nearby was a vintage log cabin on a small lake. It was only used in the summer, with no footprints in the snow, so we convinced ourselves it was harmless to trespass for a closer look. (Cabin fever makes you do questionable things.) We so badly wanted to live on a lake. And a log cabin tucked into the woods along the shoreline felt like the fulfillment of that longing.

We trudged quietly through the three feet of snow until we reached the cabin. Getting closer, we peered into the front windows. It looked like it hadn’t been touched since the 1950’s and was full of vintage charm. I could imagine cozy evenings by the wood-burning fireplace—Dave playing his guitar while the boys built Legos by firelight. I could almost hear the loons calling, picturing our fishing lines in the water nearby. Life would be simple, and we would be so happy.

Sadly, that cabin didn’t end up working out. And so, I continued wrestling with big dreams and my addiction to Zillow. I remember asking my grandma her secret to contentment, having lived in the same house for nearly fifty years.

She looked thoughtfully into the distance as she recalled the night they fled Hungary in 1956—how she and my grandpa escaped under the cover of darkness with my mom and uncle, who were small children at the time. They left everything behind and eventually found themselves in a refugee camp, unsure where they would land or what the future held.

She told me that during that time she made a quiet promise to God: If you ever give me a home again, I will always be thankful for it.

There was no bitterness in her voice when she spoke of what she lost—the stone cottage they had built together with their own hands, the hope chest filled with dreams for a life that had to be abandoned.

That promise stayed with her. And when she was finally given a home again, she kept her word—not out of fear, but out of gratitude. For her, staying wasn’t about settling. It was about stewarding what she had been given.

That conversation made me realize how deeply our stories shape us.

For me, home has always felt a bit elusive. I grew up in a simple duplex in the Chicago suburbs. When my parents separated, we moved in with my aunt and uncle for a summer, then into an apartment for a couple of years. Eventually, we landed in a townhouse with a small patio and garden out back, within walking distance to school.

When Dave and I first married, we moved to Colorado Springs and lived in the cutest two-story apartment with a wood-burning fireplace and a window with a distant view of the Garden of the Gods. We called it our honeymoon home.

Later, we moved to Dave’s hometown in Michigan when he began working with his dad in the family business. There, we bought our first two-bedroom condo. I was thrilled to finally be able to paint the walls, and I went all out—a red bedroom, an orange one, and a cheerful yellow bathroom.

When our firstborn was about three, we realized we had placed ourselves in a neighborhood filled mostly with retirees. Wanting our kids to grow up among other young families, we moved again—this time to a street where Dave’s brother lived. Being close to family felt like a gift. Our boys had cousins nearby, and for a while, the longing settled.

Then life shifted, as it often does. Dave’s brother moved out of state for work. We still loved our home, but the reason we had chosen it was gone. Also, we chose a school for the boys that we adored, but it was a thirty-minute drive each way—longer in bad weather. Spending more than two hours a day in the car wore on me, so we decided to move again.

And so, we sold our house, moved into a rental, and began building a new home just minutes from the school.

So far in this story, I’ve lived in ten homes—fewer than the national average of twelve. The seven-year itch is real. For me, it doesn’t show up as wanting a new marriage, but as wanting a new house. When things start breaking and needing repair, something new feels easier and more exciting than maintaining what already exists.

So, a handful of years into our current home, the itch returned. That old dream of living on a lake resurfaced—the same dream born during those frozen cabin-fever days. We spent so much time fishing, kayaking, and exploring nearby lakes, the loons— my siren call.

We found an empty lot on the very lake where that log cabin sat. The only problem? It wasn’t for sale. So we wrote the owners a letter, asking if they’d consider selling.

To our surprise, they reached out. We met, talked, agreed on a price, navigated township rules, and even found a house plan we loved. We bought the lot and started dreaming.

Then covid hit.

Remote work sent people flocking north. Lumber prices soared. Builders were booked years out. Inflation and interest rates climbed. Suddenly, it became very poor timing to build a cottage on a lake. So we waited.

We still enjoyed the property—cookouts, a dock, a small fishing boat along the shore—but township rules were limiting. We couldn’t camp. We couldn’t improve it by removing dead trees without approval. We learned this after cutting down one tree at a neighbor’s request, and we were required to plant a replacement.

Slowly, we realized that lake life wasn’t as peaceful as we imagined and felt a lot like living in a fishbowl. It seemed that some neighbors patrolled the shoreline on evening pontoon rides to keep an eye on everything. Any perceived disruption to their blissful lakelife, like noisy boys or campfire smoke, was met with calls to the township or the HOA.

As the years passed, building became less feasible. Rising taxes and interest rates, high building costs and the unknowns that come with building a home would have made it very difficult to achieve. Meanwhile, we had three teenage boys, rising grocery bills, braces, and college on the horizon. The dream felt further away than ever.

And our boys? They weren’t nearly as excited as we were.

The longer we stayed, the more we realized how much we actually loved our current neighborhood. The boys had friends to play with all summer long. Parents shared similar values. These were just hard-working families, raising their kids, and enjoying life together. My youngest was already living his dream childhood with hours spent outside, enjoying forts, games, and plenty of freedom. Somehow his dreams didn’t involve loons or fishing lines.

Gradually, the itch faded.

This home was affordable. We loved our neighbors. We were close to school and church. And we had just finished the basement with an office for Dave and a studio for me. Sure, we were tight on space, but we had everything we needed, plus a garden full of flourishing perennials and a front row view of the sunset every evening.

Instead of seeking another building quote that year, we found ourselves asking a new question: What would it look like to stay? To cultivate contentment? To lean in and love what we’ve already been given?

Then something unexpected happened.

A realtor called. She had a client, a mutual friend, who was looking for lake property on the same lake we owned our lot. When asked why, the woman said, “Because I grew up on that lake.”

When they pulled up to the property, she gasped, her eyes widening as if seeing a long-lost memory come to life. “I didn’t just grow up on this lake, I grew up right here.” This was the exact piece of property she grew up on! Her family lived in a trailer here before the neighbors built their home, and the land was split.

She offered full price, no haggling required. And we sold the lot to someone whose story belonged there.

Letting go of that dream was bittersweet, but also freeing.

The more I lean into staying, the more contentment I find. We clean drawers and fix hinges. Plant more perennials and enjoy the raspberries that flourish here. I choose furniture that fits my space and hang art that I love. We strive to make each space our own and create a cozy haven for my family and friends to rest.

I’ve learned that contentment doesn’t come from finding (or building) the perfect house. It comes from enjoying what we have already been given. I don’t want to miss the life I have in search of what I think I want more. And so I lean into the life we already have—our boys growing up, our home full of noise and laughter, the garden and sunsets we enjoy together.

Besides, the perfect home nestled in the ideal place is an illusion. I can never have it all. If I lived on the lake, I’d miss our sunset views. If I lived among towering trees, I’d miss the sunlight. If I had endless light pouring in my windows, I’d long to be nestled in the forest.

Every time we say yes to one thing, we are automatically saying no to others.

Sometimes I wonder if my desires really stem from a deeper longing for wholeness and for home in its truest sense. And then I remember that this world was never meant to fully satisfy that longing.

The wise C.S. Lewis once wrote, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”

And now as we sit around our Christmas tree, the lights reflecting off ornaments collected over the years, I pay attention to this moment. The boys laughing over inside jokes, Dave and I sipping cocoa, the scent of fresh pine in the air, and I feel at rest. I think of my grandma, and the promise she made long ago—to be thankful for whatever home she was given—and I finally understand her secret.

Contentment isn’t found in chasing the perfect home, but in receiving the one we’ve been given, with gratitude, and choosing to love it and the people within its walls well.

A Christmas benediction:

May you find grace for the place you are in this season.

May you learn to love the life you are living, even if it doesn’t look like the one you once imagined. May your home, whatever shape it takes, be filled with warmth, laughter, light, and the peace found in the one true Light who came to dispel our darkness.

"Jesus spoke to them, saying, I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life" John 8:12

Merry Christmas, friends.