I am lying here in bed, in the pitch dark with a throbbing migraine, but compelled to write because, well, you know, I’m always compelled to write. My migraine is due to the fact that I spent a large portion of the day crying. What on earth is wrong with me, you wonder :-). Now, looking back, I am thoroughly exhausted and utterly content … because my tears showed me some things about God and about myself.
It was odd to find out that we were moving, so suddenly (on Monday!), and was a little anticlimactic after all the waiting and anticipating. I’d sort of built up an idea (read: expectation) that in a huge flurry of events we would get a job, and then perhaps the heavens would open up and rain down great baskets full of money, and then we would march off and buy a home and live happily ever after. 🙂 Hm… So I was thrilled of course that we are getting to move, but it also felt a little odd: still not having a full-time job, moving into another family member’s home, and knowing that the arrangment will only last a very short time, like a few months. So it just felt weird. Please don’t get me wrong! I’m not disappointed and I’m not ungrateful. I am thrilled. It is a beautiful home and I’m still in awe of their generosity. This is an amazing answer to prayer. I’m just being honest that it felt weird.
But I knew it was more than that that was tugging at me. Last night I packed for awhile then went to bed, and lay awake for more than four hours … and cried. I didn’t even know exactly why I cried, and I was so confused because I was supposed to be so happy! My dream was coming true! So today I spent the day packing and had this odd feeling like I was running away from myself, or running away from my thoughts or feelings or something, but I just kept working at a feverish pace (read: coping mechanism) and was fine. Around 2pm my dad said, “Why don’t you take some time to lie down, you don’t want to overdo it,” and I knew he was right so I went upstairs and lay down on our bed. Unfortunately then what I was running from caught up with me, and waves of weeping swept over me like I have not wept in ages–truly–not even when I was sad lately and crying to Jeff. LIke weeping the kind that chokes you and you sputter and cough and curl up in the fetal position. That kind of crying. It was like I was grieving a tragic death of a loved one. But since I don’t know what I think until I write and I didn’t trust myself to write something presentable enough for blogging, I wrote an email to my husband:
Well since I can’t blog about this kind of stuff [ha! i guess i am] I thought I would just write you an email. I can’t figure out why I feel so conflicted about this move. On the one hand, I’m thrilled. All I’ve wanted was to move out on our own, and now that’s happening. But for some reason the reality of leaving here, of knowing that this is basically Dutch’s little dream-come-true haven where he gets to play in the river, the tractor, the pool, and sandbox, with Papa and Oma, on the swing and the slide and with the horsies and see the jeeps and run around the yard, and all that will be gone…the fact that my parents won’t get to wake up to the sound of Dutch’s little feel running around the kitchen. It’s good for US to leave, but it just makes me so sad for them. They are so selfless, they serve us and never put themselves first, but I know it’s going to hurt so much for them to have Dutch gone. Plus I’m scared–can I do it? Can I keep the place looking good, can I be a fun playmate for dutch when he’s used to playing with Papa and Oma all day? I don’t feel like I’ll ever be enough for him. He’s so used to getting read to and played with and I’m afraid he won’t be as happy there with only me. I just feel scared and sad and sort of happy all at the same time and I don’t know what to do.
I guess I just needed to tell you.
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I also started getting scared that by living back on our own I’d just get caught back up in life, in homemaking and decorating and cooking, and that this sweet, desperate relationship with my sweet Jesus would grow distant. Would I still be able to write if I’m not miserable? 🙂 Will I lose the sweet fellowship of suffering if we move out and things get easier?
The resolution to my conflicted heart came through the sweet voices of those I love most–my husband, my mom, and my dad. After writing to Jeff I swallowed my pride (it took a while), and went downstairs, puffy eyed and still crying, and found my mom. Like a little girl I shuffled up to her and managed to choke out the words, “Can I talk to you?” She led me to the couch and I collapsed in her arms, like I haven’t done for years, and just wept and choked and sobbed. I poured out all my fears and confessed how rotten and selfish I felt for wishing to move out when it meant taking Dutch away from them and how selfless they were and how scared I was that I’d never be enough for Dutch on my own, that he’d never again be as happy as he was living here. My dad soon came in a joined us, and I continued to pour outr my scared little heart to them. They, of course, were the best. They encouraged me and cheered me on in the way only they can. Then my husband wrote me the most amazing email, bolstering my strength and faith. I am the richest woman, to be surrounded by such love.
So I know this is all over the road, but I wanted to share the conflict of my heart. The longing for the new thing, but the grieving over what must be lost. The fear over how to embark on a new season without losing the sweet lessons of the past season. The uncertainty of continuing to walk forward, when only one step at a time is illuminated on the path ahead. And yes, I know pregnancy hormones can contribute as well. I’m a little scared because our new home has a Taco Del Mar and a Burgerville right across the street–um, can you say 80-pound-pregnancy-weightgain? 🙂
Goodnight. I’m now exhausted, content, and thankful for the people who love, listen, and help me along the path. And in response to dear Joanne’s comment, I PROMISE that I will NOT lose my love for writing and blogging and abandon you all to go back to homemaking. Homemaking is fun, but nothing compares to the joy of living authentically, hurting, loving, giving, receiving, and writing about it all along the journey. Goodnight…and as always, thanks for reading.