Moving Day. Round 2.

I remember when it first hit me, deeply, that I was moving. I was in my sisters backyard for one of our week night dinners. My sweet nieces were on their swing set and the sun was amber-rose, setting over the school and church where we spent our childhood and my nieces would be doing the same. It hit me like the unanticipated coolness in the breeze that September night. I wouldn’t be here anymore…

My moving preparations had been a walking checklist, much like the last one. But this move was anticipatory. This move held promise. Because I had seen God deliver. Through all of the perseverance, the seeking, the leaning in, up to and including the finish line of divorce, I had been deeply held and God was faithful. I knew this move held purpose. From the moment I got the call with the job opportunity, to the time I flew down South for the interview, to the brief moment of am I crazy that I worked through with my momma outside of a Starbucks as I hunted solo for apartments in a town I knew for 24 hours, to the time I closed the last box of my belongings; I kept moving and embracing God’s faithfulness.

I held a concrete schedule with very little room for error or delay from the time I packed up to the time I would be transitioning into the new job; a new life. I remember running the details of this schedule in my head for days while packing boxes, wiping down counters, cabinets and walls, wanting to leave no trace in a rented space but subtly taking in the last of the memories in the first place I called mine. I held space long enough to process and retain memories, as I stared at the desk where I battled countless nights, and took in the last of the sunsets from the porch where I would sit with tea reflecting on my day. Intentionally processing, as I was moving. This was different. This was good. This was healing…

There was laughter and joy on this moving day.

Dad and I wondering how we we were going to drive a U-haul; all five-feet-something of us asking for a booster seat at check out. The look on dad’s face after the 8-hour U-Haul drive, when learning there was no elevator to my fourth floor apartment. The first time we saw the tall ceilings and windows in my two-bedroom place that felt more like a house than a master bedroom closet. That first Southern sunrise between brightly painted units and palm trees. The renewal of confidence that I experienced in all of the planning, decisions, and steps forward.

There was bittersweet on this moving day.

How tight and close I held my body, so I could brave this goodbye.

But what made this moving day so special and bearable, was I knew in my gut, in my body, in my nervous system, that I could do the hard things. I knew God had equipped me and provided all that I needed to try a new adventure. To try and see what felt good. To try…knowing with complete confidence, that I can always come home.

The gratitude I hold for one chapter, not being the whole story.

The peace of knowing more chapters were going to be written.

The trust in knowing here, may not always be there. But there, would always be with me.

And here, is where God was calling me to be.

The memory of that snowy, January day that I headed up my long, marital home driveway for the last time would circle about as I unpacked boxes in my new town, in the second place I would call mine. This memory would hang just above my conscious as I walked into a new grocery story, new church, new walking trails, new coffee shops, new yoga studio. And one day, I told this memory it was safe to go. I told this memory we kept moving. Just look at all the places we will go…