Tuesday February 7, 2012

It’s been a little quiet here. Not here as in our house, because quiet only happens at nap-time. Quiet as in this little space I’ve carved out to ramble. Quiet doesn’t always mean there is nothing happening. Sometimes, like a too quiet preschooler, it means a great deal is happening under the surface. Apparently one of the few things that stops my overactive tongue is a big load mentally.

If you’ve been here before you know that we are selling the house we built and dreamed of living in for a lifetime. You know that we are moving to another state, pulling up our fairly established roots and heading North. A few of you know that we are in the process of finding another home church. Granted, that normally goes with moving, but this is different. There is no established church at camp. Plus, we’d decided (literally three days) before we were asked to move to camp, that it was time for us to move on. If you’ve ever been Mennonite, you know how involving this is. To add to the strangeness of attempting to jump into a church for about four months and call it home, we are still sitting in limbo, not knowing where to go. It feels as though we have been led out by God, but have not yet clearly been led in anywhere else. Unless as David says, “maybe we’re just being stubborn and not hearing it.”

In the past, I’ve read the story of Abraham and marveled at his ability to walk in faith. I wondered what it felt like to leave his family and the place where he belonged (assuming he felt he did). I wondered what his friends said, or didn’t say. I think about him a lot today. But unlike the yesterdays when I wondered what it felt like, today I draw strength from his example of unwavering faith and courage. From seeing the way that following God is more important than knowing the destination. Even if that looks odd to other people.

I find it odd to feel so free in the middle of so much unknown. Will our house sell? I don’t know. When will we move? Whenever the house sells. What house will we live in there? I don’t know. Will there be room for our things or do we need to get rid of a lot? I don’t know. When will we have another baby? I don’t know. What church are we going to join? I don’t know. How long will we live at camp? Other than needing to stay for two years, I don’t know. It could be two. It could be ten. It could be a life time.

“I don’t know,” is really not what we had in mind for our lives. We were settled. We love Virginia and where we live. I dreamed of summer cookouts with the friends the boys had known all their lives. I knew exactly which dentist, pediatrician, family doctor, and gynecologist I liked best. I loved our local library and the postal clerk makes me smile every week when I go in to ship books. And while I definitely dreamed of less winter, I could very happily have lived in this house for the rest of my life. It’s a comfortable life. My security gland purred like a fat cat.

When everything first upended, I could not believe how many facets of our life it touched. Yet strangely, I don’t feel completely out to sea. There is a strange mix of sadness and freedom. Sadness for the things we are losing coupled with a tinge of adrenalin for the adventure that lies ahead of us. Because the not knowing, doesn’t mean it’s going to be awful (even though I still fear mildew in the next bathroom). The “I have no idea,” changes to “Who knows where we will be in ten years?” If God did the unexpected once, who is to say it won’t happen again? Suddenly, holding the plays in our life loosely feels a little like the adventure of turning twenty and wondering what you are going to do in life, only with the added benefit of ten (never mind how much plus) years of perspective and of knowing God does not leave you in a lurch. My control freak tendencies have gone latent and the born for adventure streak I’ve missed for years has arisen out of darkness. I still cry some days, and I definitely wail about a few lifestyle changes, but overall, I am crazy excited.

I can’t wait to see how our house plays cards on the market. Will it be snapped up in March and we’ll be forced to do a rushed, premature move? (I pray not) Or will it sit idly with nibbles and quibbles and stall us for months? (Nerves of steel, please) Who will be the next owners? A family with young children like us who love the spacious bedrooms and walk in closets, the swing set in the yard, and the patio for a pool or retired grandparents who love all the space for entertaining and the custom moldings? Or maybe a family right in the middle who will convert the unfinished part of the basement into a home gym or media room and the laundry room into a mini kitchenette. Will they keep the garden and it’s loads and loads of compost or will they seed it in or turn it into a blueberry patch? Will they ever let us come back to visit?

How will the boys adjust to moving? How will Adam adjust to homeschooling? Will we get to keep up with our awesome neighbors who have also become our friends? What will it be like to live in such a socially isolated community? What positive changes could happen in our little family (don’t reverse that question!)? What new friends will we learn to love that we would have completely missed out on by staying here?

Only time will tell. For now, I am strangely happy with being the girl on the move.

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• Thursday February 9, 2012 →