My family has moved four times since August 1, 2013. That’s four seasons of purging, four goodbyes, four times where the light switches weren’t where they were supposed to be.
Four times when we’ve loaded our lives into boxes.
I hesitate to say we’re professionals, but I will tell you this: when the alphabet cards come down in whatever place we’ve been doing seatwork for the past weeks or months, Birdie knows the score. She encourages everyone to grab their backpack and load it up with their special things, lest they end up in boxes for the coming days.
I never wanted to be this family, yet we are. Even if our next few years are blissfully settled (please, Lord) this season has left marks on us that God intended, and will use.
It’s hard to say goodbye again, hard to hear well-meaning people lamenting their loss, hard to release the shallow roots we’ve managed to send out here in this place. Not only are we all walking away from the things that have become familiar in these past months, we’re also processing emotions that have laid dormant, waiting, since our stunned return to the U.S. It’s a lot of heart work, and it stings. Even knowing that we are going forward, even knowing that we are stepping into a new Jordan, even looking toward a day when we all gather around one table … it’s hard.
We’ll be sharing more of God’s ongoing story of mercy and grace in our lives over the next weeks. We’ll keep you abreast of developments in Babita’s visa process, as well as telling you more about the home God has provided for us on the other side of the Appalachians. There is so much good going on here. So much provision. So much of that good measure, pressed down to overflowing and poured out in our laps.
We just have to move.
I was whining about moving today. Oh, how I hate that about my own sinful heart. Being handed so much amazing and … out rushes a foot-dragging complaint.
“Packing. Again.” I texted my husband.
His response?
“I believe we won’t move again for a while.”
Then this: “Sadly, next time we pack, it will be to send one of the kids somewhere. So you and I need to keep each other in check. OK?”
Oh, that man.
A reminder in the midst: This new future that we’re waiting on will be our past soon enough. These days are but a vapor. Pack the heavy coats in a box marked “winter” now, and by the time they are unpacked, some will be outgrown.
The playroom is filling up now, with labelled boxes and empty bookshelves and dressers with drawers taped shut. We are in our last days here, and the tension of a drawn-out goodbye is wearing on all of us. We have packed all that is not needed in preparation for the final days, when the clothes and the towels and the favorite toys will be packed away in a rushed flurry.
We’ve done this before. Often, even. Headed somewhere … always somewhere … into the future that God has for us.