R is for RENT

It was ten storeys high but everyone had their own story. In my three years imprisoned within its walls, I had lived on three different floors but had never reached either the top or the bottom. There was only one entry door that opened onto a communal living room with arm chairs that had obviously been bought in bulk and not the sort that you would entertain in your own house. The warden lived on this floor and there was a little counter with a bell where you could contact him if necessary and just across the way, two public telephones that, in the evenings, were constantly in use, since the mobile was still some years away from making its appearance. The only other areas of interest on the ground floor were the lifts doors that almost everyone used, the door leading to the stairs that only the energetic or those living on the lower floors ventured through and a little dark corridor that led to a television room capable of accommodating about twelve of the one hundred and fifty or so inmates. Each level above was more or less self contained and looked identical. There was a central kitchen area that looked out over a small lake and on the higher floors, offered panoramic views over part of the city but it was never busy and more likely to be only used regularly by students who lived there on a more semi-permanent basis that those of us who disappeared at the weekend. Each room inside also followed a similar pattern, with a bed, chair and desk all acquired from the same supplier as the living room chairs and a little wash corner that housed a basin and a few shelves. But this was no en-suite for toilet, bath and shower facilities were communal, though even you never really got to know your neighbours. It was basic, but for three years of university life it was adequate so I paid the rent and just got on with it.

By fourth year, we were all ready for a change and despite the view of Belfast from our kitchen window we opted for a view of a side street filled with parked cars and our first attempt at running a house. IN two years, I live in two different rooms, first in a small room on the middle storey that looked out over a small and cramped back yard, hardly the most stimulating scene in the city. We tried to live as a family, cooking for each other and sharing a living room downstairs and while the system worked for the year, we were hardly all blood relatives and generally lived single and separate lives within the family unit. But I think we all learned to cook there and also gained some valuable experience in the less closeted environment of a terrace house. In my last year, when most of the house mates had changed, I acquired the room on the top floor. It was the biggest room and provided a panoramic view of about thirty metres of street and a bank training centre directly opposite but it wasn't a scene to die for. The room itself had a bed, a table that became my desk and a wardrobe that doubled as a clothes hanger and a dump for the discarded daily papers I bought. On the thin mantle piece, was perched my record player that would have sat uncomfortably beside any average hi-fi system but it made a sound and though it probably ruined most of the vinyls that were unfortunate enough to grace its turntable, it made a sound and that was enough to appease a student now trying to fund a car and pay the rent. However, being at the top is not all sunshine and the room always had a smoky feel to it, no doubt caused by the fumes that would drift in from neighbouring houses in an area that was still not smokeless. I lived a more solitary existence in that room, and probably spent as much time at away from it as in it so I never really made it home at all, to the extent that my only bed covering for most of the year was inside a sleeping bag. But I still paid the rent and got on with it.

For three summers I returned home and lived a rent free existence before we got married and then moved into a corner house that we rented for a further period of three years. The rent was ridiculously cheap and though the house had its problems, it was a lovely old building and as tenants and newly weds, we were happy to live there until something more permanent appeared. In winter it was a cold house, but not cold enough to ward off frequent small visitors with long tails and we essentially lived in about three or four rooms, again on three storeys. At the front there was a small but adequate mature garden, with several trees and at the rear, a sizeable yard with outbuildings that the owner rented out to other neighbours, so we were never alone. However, as plans for our own house became more than just drawings on paper, we found ourselves spending less and less time in the rented accommodation and most of our waking hours, painting, decorating and overseeing the new building. I wasn't sorry to leave the corner house but we had many happy memories in our three or four rooms and we always paid the rent, though we were always looking forward to our new home.

And we are still looking forward to our new home, the one that Jesus has gone to get ready, for he left his disciples with this promise,'In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.' But we have to be ready for the move and have made our own preparations for when he returns to take us there. That means trusting in the One who said He will return. In all the place I have lived, I have never wanted to move back to the previous place, because I know that where I am, it is better than before. And that's the way I still think, knowing that what Jesus has prepared for me is far better than anything I have here. In the week that we remember Him making His temporary home on earth, let's make plans for a more permanent dwelling where we never have to pay to stay for ever.