Saturday Confession: Close Enough
In the midst of packing my husband shared a revelation.
The day we move to the house we believe is the last one for us is ten years to the day we moved to Ohio.
Wow.
Some days it feels like yesterday, and others, 100 years.
I know this much—when my husband approached me over a year ago asking me to consider praying about moving, I was absolutely dead set against it. It took months of him talking to me and my praying to move my mind. It truly is a God thing the entire way because if it were up to me, I’d be rocking in a corner and ignoring what I know we were meant to do.
Why was I so against it?
My mind remains traumatized by the last move and to me, any subsequent move would be just like that. The circumstances and grief surrounding the last one were so profound I still think my body threw itself into perimenopause at 37.
It wasn’t a fun time.
And who in their right mind would want to go through that again?
My husband reminded me this isn’t 2004. He hasn’t moved 300 miles away for a new job while I’m with young children, one who is chronically ill. Our family is healthy and not going through loss.
In fact, he assured me the teen and tween we have can pack boxes. So can he. We’d be in the same state, same city, even the same house.
So we moved forward. Started packing in faith. Found the agent. Started looking at homes. It did feel different. I can do this, I thought.
But then summer came. Delays. A deal gone south. Back to square one. Stress. Surprises. Work schedules so insane we don’t seem to be in the same house anymore. Or the same city. Or the same state.
I was packing a box and felt the familiar pang of grief. I missed my Dad. I was lonely.
And it hit me.
This move isn’t like the last one. A decade ago I sat on my bed just looking outside wondering how I ended up in Ohio. This feels like redemption. A new chapter. Fulfilling purpose for this new thing.
As I cried I knew what I was feeling overall was apples and oranges.
But as I missed my dad, dreaded the calls I knew would come between my husband, agents, loan officers, buyers, sellers, renters and everyone inbetween, couldn’t sleep, was sick of packing boxes I cried remembering past tears.
And for just a moment—the first move—where my world was crashing and everything changed—and this one—where a new chapter begins and God answered as faithfully as the first one—seemed close enough to warrant tears.
And a package of cookies.
