New Home
Moving through life one box and one doctor's visit at a time
When we moved to Virginia, the word new quickly became part of our everyday vocabulary: new home, new jobs, new daycare, new routines, and more. We arrived five weeks before the start of my first ordained call as associate pastor. Those weeks became a season of adjustment and testing, a mixture of grace and growing pains as we settled into unfamiliar surroundings with a toddler and a four-month-old at home.
All the newness soon began to take a toll on my body. I noticed the rising stress that came from too little sleep and too many boxes still stacked around the house. One morning, this sleep-deprived mama drove straight through a red light. I did not even realize the traffic signal was there until the following day, when I drove to the same intersection and finally stopped.
While stopped, questions began to stir in my mind: Was this traffic light installed yesterday? Has it always been here? What else am I missing these days?
That moment should have been my first clue that I needed to slow down, but I kept pushing forward. My stubbornness won out, so my body decided for me. One morning, although my body was awoken from a restless night, my eyelids refused to open.
The night before, I had fallen asleep wearing my contact lenses. By morning, my eyelids were sealed shut, and even the smallest bit of light was painful. I managed to remove the lenses, hoping that would fix everything, but nothing changed. My husband, Reed, had already left for work. Forty-five minutes later, after fumbling through the morning trying to care for two little ones with my eyes refusing to open, in tears, I called him and asked him to come home. I felt awful making that call since he had been at his new job for only a few weeks, but his supervisor was gracious and allowed him to leave work early and help at home.
Later that morning, we went to see an optometrist. I held tightly to Reed’s arm and wore sunglasses because both sunlight and fluorescent lights made my eyes ache. Reed had been doing Power 90 Extreme (P90X) workouts (very intense exercise for ninety days), and every muscle in his body hurt, so he walked like an older man with slow, stiff strides. We must have been quite a sight in the waiting room: two little girls playing with toys while their mother wore sunglasses and their father groaned softly in his chair.
The eye doctor prescribed an antibiotic and told me to return the next morning if there was no improvement. We left the office and headed home, where I spent the rest of the day resting in the darkness of my bedroom. By the next morning, my eyelids were still sealed shut, so we returned to the optometrist. This time, she prescribed a steroid, and by the afternoon, my eyelids began to open. After several days of much-needed rest, my body finally began to function again. I wish I had paid attention to the warning signs earlier, but those days spent in the quiet darkness gave me the deep rest my body had been pleading for.
When I was young, my father lost vision in his right eye, and the fear of blindness stayed with him for the rest of his life. He passed that fear to his daughters, often reminding us to take good care of our eyes. I thought of him many times during those two dark days and prayed he would never have to hear this story.
This episode occurred during our third week in Virginia. At that point, I had not yet been formally introduced at the church where I was called to serve. During those weeks, we visited other congregations in the area and began to get to know the faith communities near our new home.
On a Sunday afternoon, I traveled to North Carolina to train the new mission director who had taken over my former position in Charlotte. During the trip, I received a phone call from Laura Boward, a member of the group that had called me to serve. Laura asked how I was feeling, and I told her the past week had been rough, but I was doing much better. She then related a conversation she had that morning at church. The topic surprised her, and she wanted to clarify something with me. After worship, a member had asked if there was anything she could do to help the new associate pastor who was blind. Laura then asked, “Why does this person think you are blind?”
I began to laugh as I explained my week. I told her that the member must have been in the optometrist’s waiting room when my name was called. And yes, last week I truly did look, feel, and act blind. We laughed together before ending the conversation.
I called Reed shortly afterward to share how quickly news travels in a small town. I also told him how impressed I was by that church member’s response. Instead of questioning why the committee would hire a blind associate pastor, she responded with compassion and great love.
A few other struggles surfaced during those five weeks of transition to our new home, including the discovery of how allergic I am to poison ivy. After weeding the flower beds around our new home, I became covered from head to toe with an itchy rash; I found myself relying on steroids once again, as my saving grace.
It would have been easy to grow discouraged or to question my call to ministry amid those early health struggles. Instead, I kept moving forward. At last, the Sunday arrived for both my installation service and the baptism of our youngest daughter, Haven. In that moment, all seemed at peace in this little corner of the world we now called home.
Seven years later, I preached my final sermon at my first call. The Scripture that day was Psalm 121, and in the sermon, I offered gratitude for the years of ministry shared with a faithful community of youth, families, and church members. In this place, our family grew closer to God while walking alongside many others on their journeys of faith.
As I prepared that sermon, I remembered the eye story from years ago and realized I had never shared it with the congregation that had called me to serve among them. So that day, I told the story and reflected on how one person’s willingness to care for a blind pastor grew into a congregation that helped us lift our eyes to the hills and serve the Creator of heaven and earth.
Psalm 121 remains a passage of Scripture I return to in times of struggle and in moments of joy. As I drive through the Shenandoah Valley, it is hard not to look up at the hills with gratitude to our Creator and take in their beauty, whether they are covered with fog or snow on Afton Mountain, lush and green in summer, or filled with shades of yellow, red, and orange in the fall. I have read this psalm at the bedsides of dying members and spoken its words on mountaintops during mission trips. It continues to speak deeply to my soul, offering comfort and giving new sight in every season of life as I serve both in the church and in the world.
This week marks our eighteenth year in Virginia. We have lived in the same house all these years and are grateful for this community, where our daughters have played in the cul-de-sac with neighbors and attended the same school system with friends. We have updated our home from time to time with new paint, door knobs, and countertops, but by and large, it has remained the same—a cozy little one-story home filled with special memories. Recently, I painted the front door with the help of a Lowe’s employee who chose a fabulous red paint color. And I have to say, it does look quite fabulous.
Reflection
Recall your last move to a new home. What moments felt most challenging, and how did you overcome them?
Have you ever experienced a misunderstanding in your church or faith group? How did you respond, and what did God reveal through it?
When have you missed the warning signs that your body, mind, or spirit needed rest, and how did God use that season to help you lift your eyes and see more clearly?
Have a fabulous week serving God and loving your neighbor well.
Rev. April H. Cranford
Thank you, April for your story. It really helped me today for my coming week. Blessings💙
I remember those days so well! I also remember the support you and Reed found in your new community. ❤️