...There's really nothing new to say,
but the old old Story bears repeating,
and the same old Truth grows dearer everyday...
It's been months and months since I've written.
I had a baby.
I went back to work.
And a lot of other stuff just had to wait.
writing should have to wait.
But as a brightening day hovers on the edge of gray,
I sit with my laptop
while my kids nap,
and I write.
When I began this blog
it was with the intention of processing my way through
what it means to plant the trees of our lives,
lives with roots that grow deep and offer shade and rest and protection for generations.
And now, those trees are being uprooted.
My husband, the one I plant with,
took a job with Word Made Flesh,
and with them we are moving to Portland, Oregon.
Just when we were feeling settled.
Just when we'd adjusted from our international move.
Just when it seemed everything was coming together...
the unpredictable happened.
In some ways the decision was a no-brainer.
I'd dreamed of what it would mean to one day bring our children to Kolkata
and introduce them to a place that had made Jesus more real to me.
We knew returning to Romania would always be part of our lives,
and so would the Center where we had served.
Working with Word Made Flesh would be not only a vocation for my planter guy,
but for our entire family.
Serving Jesus among the most vulnerable.
This means leaving our home.
The one we made here...
friends and family and children and church and work and parks and restaurants and coffee and mountains and beaches and desert and neighbors and streets and palm trees and laughter and hugs and knowing and being known and dinners and lunches and errands and worship and community and I'll see you in an hour.
And when my little girl cries to play with a friend who no longer is just around the corner.
And when my heart aches at the little ones who I will watch grow from a distance, and not in the everyday when we almost don't notice how much they are changing because we see one another so much.
And when they say they adore my girl.
And when I don't know who will meet us for Taco Tuesday.
Or the church we will attend.
Or the friends we will make.
Or the Papa and Gammy who are far away.
When we aren't known and the struggle wasn't known and so the joy isn't as sweet.
I wonder if it's worth it.
My living room is littered with boxes.
Testaments of a life of blessing.
My children nap and their rest is full and their peace is deep
and I know that what I hope for them can lie here or there,
but mostly it resides in who we will be.
And the being
leads to the doing.
And the doing
leads to love.
Hope that the testaments of a life of blessing are not boxes packed with our stuff,
but the sacrament of our lives...
the broken bread,
the poured out wine,
the Word made flesh.
In order that others may know Love,
that they will drink and never thirst again...
that they will taste and see.
We be and do and love and hope
and pull up our roots and pray
that the transplant takes.
That the new soil we plant in
will only make us grow deeper,
so that our trees grow taller
and our limbs bigger,
offering more shade and rest and protection
to a world deeply weary.
that all we leave behind
strengthens and feeds and forms us,
for what lies ahead.
For this we are grateful.
Filled boxes are not the only testament of a blessed life.
So are our aching hearts.