The phrase “We’re moving” wears me out. The mental agility necessary to sort, organize, pack, label, number, create a database (so, I’m a melancholy computer nerd a times) of what hides within each box makes me so weary I can hardly bang two thoughts together.
The last time we moved (almost two years ago), I knew about a year ahead of time that we would probably move, and so I spent an entire summer sorting and donating and reducing—all in preparation just in case we moved.
Despite three months of hard work, when my husband really did get a job in a different state, it still took me a month to pack (and sort and donate and reduce) and fit everything into Budget Rent-A-Truck’s largest moving van. The house stayed a mess for the entire month—right up to the minute when I sadly said goodbye to friends and co-workers and climbed into the van and drove away—leaving our neighbors to haul our two mismatched sofas that didn’t fit into the truck (I did a secret happy dance to say good bye to the sofas) away the next day.
What a mess. Unpacking and arranging poses an equal strain on my psyche. This time, we camped in different rooms of the house for four months while my dad and I banished popcorn ceiling, wood paneling and an ugly kitchen with plaster, paint, tile and hard work.
July will mark our second anniversary in the new house—and I’ve hung a grand total of three pictures and we still haven’t replaced the sofas (which makes entertaining 50 students an interesting challenge).
In contrast, my daughter found out two days ago that she and her husband would be moving. They signed the lease yesterday (and moved their first seven boxes into the new place). Neatly packed boxes fill the new place today, and tomorrow (we’re driving as I write) Pedro and I will help them move the heavy stuff. Chances are, Laura will have everything unpacked and in it’s place (including artwork hung on the walls) within a week. To her, the phrase “We’re moving” brings an exciting challenge.
Next time I have to move, I’m calling her. She promised to come and pack for me and unpack and arrange in the new place (hopefully, I don’t have to move for a long time).
My mess. Her challenge.
And that’s how it is with God. I see a mess—he sees a challenge. I have to trust that if I call on him, he’ll work with me, right in the middle of my mess, and turn it into something beautiful. In his time.
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