The Making of a Lifestyle
Some months ago when we were contemplating a move back to Indiana, we had some ideas about what our transition would look like. We would move after the kids were out of school, having listed our house in the early spring. We would find a good, solid home in the area close to where we'd lived before, plug back in with our church, and enroll the kids in a nearby public school. We would both apply for full-time work, and whoever got the job first would work; the other would stay home with the kids. We always ended the conversations with, "and if for some crazy reason our house doesn't sell, at least we have family there this time."
Fast forward about seven months. The job interviews have been conducted, and it turns out I've been the one to go back to work. School let out and we moved back this way. Our house, which everyone anticipated would sell quickly, sits empty. The school for the kids has been a wonderful decision, although it took Henry weeks to adjust to his new surroundings. And our flippant, "at least we have family" has turned out to be exactly the piece that has kept us afloat for many, many more weeks than we ever could have anticipated.
I'd be lying if I said this transition has been easy. In fact, it's largely for that reason that I've avoided writing until now. While we are thankful--so thankful--to be close to family, this transition has tested and stretched and challenged us far more than we could have anticipated. We've turned every part of our lives on its head: a new town, new surroundings, living with family, only a small portion of our things with us, Micah home full-time, me working full-time on nights, new schools, new lifestyle... Small wonder it's been a bumpy road. To be honest, we've lost a lot of ourselves in the past few months, and we're just now finding our way back to "us" again.
It's the waiting that has tested us the most. Having taken three years to sell our last house, each passing week has been fraught with concern that this time will be similar. We've been blessed to live with my parents through this time, but it feels all the more, then, as though we're in a holding pattern.
But I've never been asked to wait without also being invited to grow. It's precisely in the long moments of questioning that our hearts have been stirred and shaped. We've always had a heart for community, for diversity, for living as generously as possible. But what's grown in us in the past few months has been something else altogether. An entire lifestyle has been taking form in our hearts with very specific ideas about how we can and should live. Our prayer has become increasingly that we would position our lives in a way that we could be generous, be ready to serve, that our entire lives would lend themselves to meeting others' needs. It's shaped every part of what we do, how we spend our time, how we use our money, and specifically how we pray for our next home. We've grown more and more passionate about the children our lives are intersecting with who need someone to love them, to care about them. Our prayer has been that we would have "just enough" so that the overflow can be poured out on others. We feel, in many ways, like a toy car that's been wound up and is sitting, just waiting to shoot across the floor at top speed.
Last night I was reading a Bible story to Cora. We came across the verse, "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." (James 1:17) As I prayed with her, I thanked God for his "good and perfect gift" of these many months of waiting. It was the first time I'd seen this long, difficult transition as a gift. But without the benefit of this time, our lives would look very different in the coming years. We would have rushed headlong into a very comfortable life--it would have been good, and it could have been useful, but it wouldn't have been filtered through the lens through which every decision heading forward now will be filtered. Having had to sit on the sidelines through this time, straining and searching and seeking His wisdom, our hearts and lives have been shaped and changed in ways they never can be when we are in motion. Sometimes we have to sit on the sidelines for a time to get a better picture of the game being played out in front of us. And what a view it is.
Fast forward about seven months. The job interviews have been conducted, and it turns out I've been the one to go back to work. School let out and we moved back this way. Our house, which everyone anticipated would sell quickly, sits empty. The school for the kids has been a wonderful decision, although it took Henry weeks to adjust to his new surroundings. And our flippant, "at least we have family" has turned out to be exactly the piece that has kept us afloat for many, many more weeks than we ever could have anticipated.
I'd be lying if I said this transition has been easy. In fact, it's largely for that reason that I've avoided writing until now. While we are thankful--so thankful--to be close to family, this transition has tested and stretched and challenged us far more than we could have anticipated. We've turned every part of our lives on its head: a new town, new surroundings, living with family, only a small portion of our things with us, Micah home full-time, me working full-time on nights, new schools, new lifestyle... Small wonder it's been a bumpy road. To be honest, we've lost a lot of ourselves in the past few months, and we're just now finding our way back to "us" again.
It's the waiting that has tested us the most. Having taken three years to sell our last house, each passing week has been fraught with concern that this time will be similar. We've been blessed to live with my parents through this time, but it feels all the more, then, as though we're in a holding pattern.
But I've never been asked to wait without also being invited to grow. It's precisely in the long moments of questioning that our hearts have been stirred and shaped. We've always had a heart for community, for diversity, for living as generously as possible. But what's grown in us in the past few months has been something else altogether. An entire lifestyle has been taking form in our hearts with very specific ideas about how we can and should live. Our prayer has become increasingly that we would position our lives in a way that we could be generous, be ready to serve, that our entire lives would lend themselves to meeting others' needs. It's shaped every part of what we do, how we spend our time, how we use our money, and specifically how we pray for our next home. We've grown more and more passionate about the children our lives are intersecting with who need someone to love them, to care about them. Our prayer has been that we would have "just enough" so that the overflow can be poured out on others. We feel, in many ways, like a toy car that's been wound up and is sitting, just waiting to shoot across the floor at top speed.
Last night I was reading a Bible story to Cora. We came across the verse, "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." (James 1:17) As I prayed with her, I thanked God for his "good and perfect gift" of these many months of waiting. It was the first time I'd seen this long, difficult transition as a gift. But without the benefit of this time, our lives would look very different in the coming years. We would have rushed headlong into a very comfortable life--it would have been good, and it could have been useful, but it wouldn't have been filtered through the lens through which every decision heading forward now will be filtered. Having had to sit on the sidelines through this time, straining and searching and seeking His wisdom, our hearts and lives have been shaped and changed in ways they never can be when we are in motion. Sometimes we have to sit on the sidelines for a time to get a better picture of the game being played out in front of us. And what a view it is.
