Moving On

It seems odd to me that moving on from one place to another can be such a difficult process. Odd, that as creatures of nomadic instinct and insatiability, we would find it deeply unsettling to move. I’m not sure if “we” refers to women or to wives or moms or perhaps the entire human race but I’m learning something about change that would not have been gained from moving on.

When faced with even a hint of movement, several things stir within the human soul. Fear. Excitement. Anticipation. Hope. It’s as though we’ve never experienced change or movement or progression in our whole existence. As if we never stopped drinking from a bottle to start enjoying the mess of big-kid cups. As if we never graduated from one grade to another, and another and another. As if marrying the love of your life didn’t bring a world of change, growth, and transition.

But, nonetheless, we struggle to identify all the swirls of emotion and thoughts and most of all: the implications. Now let me transition to first person to make this honest and certainly vulnerable.

I had feared change for such a long time. I mean really feared the change. Not so much a: “whoa, this could be interesting,” but a “holy #*@$!, this could be %*&@# hard and bad and I am certainly not up for this right now.” (I told you I would be honest.) In the midst of the journey, there was not clarity or foresight and there was definitely not an easy path or an easy answer. There were all kinds of strings that had taken strong bind over each corner of my being. Little had I realized that those strings had turned into ropes and fused into iron links. I was walking with weight and restriction. Maybe not so much walking but just swaying back and forth, giving the idea of movement but actually not getting anywhere. I was shocked at the fear that was exposed in me and especially the fear of man that made me think some pretty funky ideas.

Thankfully, I have a great husband who tends to get through things a few steps before me and make the path a little more distinct. He could see. He knew. He had the smallest amount of hope that it would be better on the other side. It was his mustard seed that would move my mountain.

So we decided. We made hundreds of itsy bitsy baby steps that were simply in the right direction. We sacrificed. We let go of places that held our identity and our security. We surrendered our comfort and our wills and our safety. We searched for the exit door that was behind dozens of dark corners and hidden staircases and walked through it. We had been told it didn’t exist and made to believe that if it did, the other side would only promise uncertain fields and unmarked skies. As our hand pushed the handle closed, it would take a whole new level of faith to turn around. Staring at a closed door is often more comforting than turning to see the new environment.

Let me say this: I’ve left the details of our movement very vague because well, just because.   It’s these more recent moves and changes that put the most glorious light into the days before us. I’m putting my confidence in the days before me, the virgin mornings that haven’t been lived, and the pure evenings that will hold my most meaningful investments of love, mercy, and justice.

My God is making all things new.