Our Story: Re-Written

Calling Allison Hill my home was never a quick yes. It was a long obedience—a slow leaning in and, at times, a quiet desire to run. A half-open door always remained, just in case God changed His mind… or I did. What I didn’t know then was that this tug-of-war would become the place where my calling was clarified, my fears exposed, and my love made permanent.

Our story with the Hill began in May of 2013. I still remember driving down 13th Street in a white 15-passenger van after hours on the road. As we crested the Hill, a knot formed in my stomach. What am I doing here? Will I be safe?

Rows of deteriorating row homes lined the streets. Trash spilled into the drains from the sidewalks. Homes that were once ornate stood hollow and tired. You could tell this place had known beauty once—real beauty—but it felt buried beneath neglect and abandonment. The weight of it hit my heart like a blanket of hopelessness, whispering accusations: You don’t belong here. Go home.

Then we walked into the mansion.

Despite the loud, mismatched paint colors and the years of wear, the bones of beauty were unmistakable. Fireplaces, wood floors, craftsmanship that told stories of a man who once believed Harrisburg to be grand and worthy of investment. A lawyer, we were told, who built this home for his family and dreamed of a beautiful city. I couldn’t help but ask: What happened? Why did he leave? How did such promise unravel?

That first night, we slept in the carriage house. It was hot, the windows were open, and the sound of gunshots and shouting carried through the darkness. Fear kept me awake as voices echoed outside—anger, desperation, brokenness laid bare. I remember thinking, Lord, is this really You?

That same night, my husband had a dream—clear and unmistakable. We were being sent here. The words spoken over him were simple and final: Peace. There is a place for you here.
We had asked the question the night before—Is there even room for us?—and God answered without hesitation. I agreed it was Him… even though I wasn’t thrilled.

In those early days, the house was full of passionate young missionaries, brimming with hope and expectation. We believed we would build family, build community, be part of something bigger than ourselves. What we didn’t know was how much the down payment on our destiny would cost us.

People left—one by one. Dreams shifted. Accusations came in waves. We disappointed others, and others disappointed us. God used those seasons to prune deeply, shaping us through long nights of doubt and perseverance. Looking back, I don’t know how we stayed afloat—only that God kept us there.

Nine months in, we were invited to take over the lease of the house. And with that invitation came mistakes, missteps, and another exodus. Yet in the midst of it, something unexpected began to grow. We started the School of the Heart, learning together how to live honestly before God. Even as accusations swirled, our hearts were coming alive again. This, I thought, is why we came.

Still, my heart hadn’t fully said yes to The Hill.

That changed in the spring of 2016 when the organization we had partnered with decided to leave. We stood at a crossroads. And we knew—this was the moment to plant our roots. To finally close the back door. To buy the mansion. To stay.

God spoke with clarity I couldn’t ignore:
Do you see the buried treasure beneath the trash and brokenness? Do you see what I paid for? Will you love her—and stay?

Suddenly, the abandoned lots and overflowing sheds weren’t someone else’s problem. They were ours. If this was truly our home, then we had to treat it like one.

So we started small. With trash bags.

We didn’t have a strategy—just obedience. As we went out week after week, uncovering what had been buried for decades, doors began to open. In three weeks, over 100,000 pounds of trash were removed with the City’s support. Neighbors noticed. Hope stirred. For the first time in a long while, people began to believe that change might actually be possible here.

That simple act of love—treating the neighborhood as home—became the seed of everything that followed.

Today, more than a decade later, we stand in awe of what God has done.

What began with a hesitant yes has grown into a movement of restoration. We now raise nearly $1.3 million annually, employ six full-time staff, have removed over 3 million pounds of trash, and steward a two-acre working urban farm in the heart of our neighborhood. And now, we are preparing to break ground on our first affordable housing project—a tangible declaration that people belong here.

We stayed.

We planted deep roots.

And we’re not leaving until the vision is fulfilled—until every street is touched, every lot restored, and Allison Hill is not just a place on the map, but a place called home again.