Last night was restless. Our babe was in bed with us by 10, restlessly whimpering every ten minutes from an unknown sleep-interrupter. My legs were pregnancy-restless. And my mind was moving-restless. Or maybe it was analytical-restless, taking all these mixed emotions and turning them upside down and sideways, trying to find a way to compartmentalize it all the way I’ve been jimmy-rigging our entire life into suitcases these last few weeks.
As legs readjusted and husband breathed sleep-heavy and outside babe squirmed and inside babe snuggled up onto my bladder, the words raced. I started writing half a dozen different blogs posts that were just-as-quickly forgotten. “I wonder if this is how songwriters feel,” I thought, “with a constant current of melodies, mind-floating on through, just waiting for them to reach up and pull at a string to see what falls out together.”
If moving and I had a relationship status, it would be marked complicated. The kind of complicated where I’m not sure if pulling at that string will loosen up a waterfall of helpful verbal-processing or tighten it all up even more into an even more confusing and frustrating knot.
The number one question I keep getting asked is what I’m most excited about for our move. And when I am, I pause. And assess my right-then, running a quick list of the Oregon things that I love through my mind and waiting for the happy heartstrings to be pulled. But it’s hushed in there; the strings sit silently.
The truth is, our decision to leave Maui wasn’t quite like the decision to come here. Our choice to move was rushed. The best scenario for us financially, and we are going home to a rich community but neither of us are ready to say goodbye to the friends we have been knit together with here. Or maybe it’s beyond knitting. Because knitting is supposed to be somewhat loose and with a little bit of give and our hearts are so tightly woven with many hearts on this tiny island that it’s so much more than a simple knit-stitch.
But there were trail markers that led to the pointing home, not the least of which was the three different references to selling everything you own and follow God on three separate, unrelated occasions in one week. And there were heart-wrenching conversations with God (on my end) about healing and the fear of going back to the place that was marked by heartache and brokenness when we left. And, most recently, there was the realization that, on top of the “it’s complicated” moving relationship status, it’s all happening in November, which I already have a complicated relationship with alone. And adding on a whole new round of goodbyes in an already emotional month? It just seems a little bit crazy.
But here I sit, at a kitchen table that’s already been sold and waiting for its new owner to pick it up, in the middle of a relatively empty living room where the couch once rested. Incidentally, it’s the same table that I sat at during all those quiet-time-years, waiting for the happy ending to a not-so-happy story. It’s time for a new table. A new season. Stepping into the healing, and believing God that, as He promised, it will follow me back home.
Because we move in six November days. And our second babe is coming in about 33 days. And suddenly, those sitting-silent heartstrings begin to sway in a breeze of excitement. Because as long as I have my boys with me, I will always be home.