Cocooning

I just finished my last shift at the Dinner Theater for the week, and it's finally sinking in that we're moving on Sunday!

I've had so many mixed emotions. Obviously, I'm thrilled that we're moving into a space that'll better fit our family of five. (It's been my heart's prayer for 5 plus years!) But, we're also leaving our home of 7 years, the one that contains all the precious memories of my "young mommy" years. We've lived in this small two bedroom duplex since Jennifer was 2 and Ryker wasn't even born. This summer Jennifer will be 10, Ryker is 7, and surprise baby #3 (Sean) is turning 4. It definitely feels like our move to the house next door is a mark of change on so many levels: A new season of parenting. A fresh start financially. A growing ability to trust. And now that I'm 40, an evolving perspective on life.

The library called today and informed me that a book I ordered three months ago is finally in. (I don't know why it took so long, but I'm a firm believer that timing is no accident.) The book is Marianne Williamson's "The Age of Miracles." It's about navigating midlife with dignity and voice and grace. I read a few pages of the introduction and then quickly put it down. Because with everything I need to do for this move, sneaking a peek at a few pages felt like teasing myself with one small solicitous bite of a double decker chocolate cake. I can't wait for time to truly dig in.

We also found another monarch caterpillar this week. It's currently munching away on a huge stalk of milkweed in our living room.. Within only a few short days the cute, striped little creature has more than doubled in size. This is the third season we've played midwife to a caterpillar, but I never grow tired of watching the miraculous changes and waiting for the transformation to come. I guess the serendipitous timing of finding this little guy is also a gift.

Everything about this move feels simply monumental, so I must admit it seems slightly strange that our street address is only changing by one number. One of my friends said, "You've been waiting on Jesus for so long, and the whole while he's been living next door!"

I'll send address updates once I find out what our new email will be (because that's changing too.) Thanks for sharing the joy and the journey! Blessings like this one just aren't the same without friends and family to help us celebrate!

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty. ~Maya Angelou

Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it's going to be a butterfly. ~Richard Buckminster Fuller

Beautiful and graceful, varied and enchanting, small but approachable, butterflies lead you to the sunny side of life. And everyone deserves a little sunshine. ~Jeffrey Glassberg

It's been eons since my last post because it feels like the whole earth is shifting beneath me. I'm trying to find my feet. . .endure the aftershocks of John's death. The funeral weekend with friends was wrenching and healing, a time of mourning and praiseful worship. It still bothers me that life is so mixed that way. I'm 40, and still looking for the stone-less road even though I know (at least in my head) one doesn't exist.

Being at Church of the Resurrection (Margie and John's church and my family's home church before moving to Minnesota) was restorative. Through liturgy and music I was reminded that grief and praise can coexist. We cried and danced. Surrendered and celebrated.

Even now, I'm trying to embrace both. I need to mourn John, pray for and support my newly widowed friend and her two precious children, say goodbye to my present home AND celebrate the gift of a new home. As we prepare to move next door, I feel as if my current "nest" is simply being unfeathered. My garage is cluttered with cheaply priced "junk." And I feel restless about living in a new space that I can't quickly re-feather.

I'm just overwhelmed. I want to feel "at home" somewhere. In my grief, I long for comfy quilts and a room that is nurturing, warm, complete. Instead, my home is full of empty boxes.

Empty to fill.

Empty to fill.

Empty to fill.

The phrase runs through my mind as a source of comfort.

Jesus, the One acquainted with our sorrows, fill me with YOU. Help me to make my home in YOU. You're all I truly need.