As a child I moved often and developed a style to it. Odd to think that moving could have a style but it seems it can. It's challenging to move well. Over the years I began to see it as an almost-sport. I love the thrill and trial of the actual packing, loading, and unloading. I love the newness of the empty space that I will soon reside in and the cleanness that comes to the old only by removing everything first. I love the fresh start with who I am in other's eyes and the tightness produced in the family as it leans on each member for that sense of home. I love learning new roads and streets and highways. Getting lost in routine errands and finding something familiar or drawing a mental map to get home.
This move isn't the same.
While I do look forward to the packing and cleaning and arriving parts, I feel an ache coming from somewhere inside. A bit of sorrow at the loss of roots. Maybe it is my age or that the dynamics of my life have changed, but I long for a deep friendship that surpasses the superficiality of the "getting to know you" stage. I dream of getting to know an older woman who can mentor me into godly mothering and wife-hood. More than anything, I shake at the idea of not having a church for a while. My family has found itself under a pastor and church body that isn't afraid to challenge us. I have come to love the growth that comes with the challenge and I'm nervous to step out from under it. With other moves, since being married, my family has found ourselves walking through spiritual deserts. I wince at the idea of repeating those days.
I feel equipped and know that God will provide and as He promised will develop our character and make us more like Christ. The waiting and vulnerability isn't ideal or pleasant. I suppose I become anxious over foolish things. God forgive me my lack of faith.
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