I have a love-hate relationship with moving. Okay, I guess it’s mostly hate. But, like it or not, we are a family that moves house. Lots, as it is turning out. After our upcoming move this weekend, here will be our current family stats:
Matt and Laura: Married 11 years. Moved 12 times. Lived in 7 cities and on 4 continents.
Kelty: 7 years-old. Moved 7 times. 5 cities and 3 continents.
Cade: 5 years-old. Moved 5 times. 3 cities and 2 continents.
Ava: Nearly- 3- years-old. Moved 3 times. 2 cities, 2 continents.
I guess you could say we don’t collect a lot of dust. And oftentimes I worry about what all this transition will do to my kid’s hearts and how it will affect our relationships with friends and family. I struggle with missing cousin birthday parties and sister lunches. My heart hurts from being absent from family events, from loving only over the phone, from recognizing that Matt and I are the only consistent ones who are here to notice the daily changes in my young children. And that is hard. Brutal, actually, for this heart of mine.
Because there’s a part of all of us that longs for roots. Relationships that have depth. Places that are familiar. Routines that are known. People that can remind you of your own history.
And when I look at that (the deep goodness of roots), discontentment begins its subtle creep. When I rubber-neck my focus on her story and how she gets to stay, I tend to complain and grumble and whine. When I stop to really think about what I am missing there, the here seems harder to enjoy or fully engage in.
But the here is what I have been given.
The here. This day. In this house. For this season. Alongside these people. Caring for these kids and married to this husband. In this country.
This is my story. With all its transitions and moving vans and setting up utilities, again.? This is my Christ-following, and by extension, my husband-following, too. But like in all of life, I have a choice as a woman, as a mother, as a wife. I can put all my chips into my journey (transitions and all), or I can sit back like a stingy Poker player and only bid the minimum amount to avoid folding (and being out of the game) completely.
And I’ve decided I’m all in. Regardless of the cards in my palm (and the struggles they may represent), this is the hand I’ve been dealt (and have chosen).
And, I’m sliding my whole stack of chips across the table.
And, now, off to pack some boxes.
FYI: We have decided to move to a much cheaper house that is closer to the orphanage. I promise I will be sharing the story of why we decided to move and pictures of our new (more, ah-hem, local) rented house soon. There’s a story to be shared in that, too.And, the poker-reference in this post is a shout-out to my bro-in-law, Will. I wrote this and thought of you and Amy on our back porch last summer in Colorado playing cards and betting poker chips. Miss you guys. What is the hardest part about being “all in” with your unique story–whether that is to stay or to go?