Moving to a new state the week before a pandemic: 5/5 would not recommend.
In one fell swoop, I lost my home base and the world collectively lost its sense of normalcy. It’s been doubly jarring and I have yet to walk into a room full of people here with a sense of coming home. Even the kindest people are also unsure or unable (or unwilling? 🥴) to reach out to the new kid in the ways they might have previously had the margin to do so before.
The loneliness has been crippling lately, and I’m homesick. Some of the things that made it easier to move— like friends dispersing to Kindergarten at different schools— have now been reversed as they all join together to micro-school in response to COVID. I miss our neighbors, our big oak tree, the street we walked on, the parks we played at. I love fall in Kansas City.
I miss the opportunity to homeschool with our previously public-schooled friends. I miss my old MOPS group. I miss my old hospital and co-workers. I miss Wednesday afternoons with my Aunt. I miss zoo trips with my other Aunt and Uncle.
I miss, I miss, I miss. And this week the tears are spilling out at inconvenient times, like when I’m charting at work at the end of a crazy day, or when I’m sitting on a park bench on a gorgeous autumn afternoon with my delightful kids.
While I know in my head this was the right move, it’s harder and harder to feel the truth if it as the days grow shorter and the global anxiety grows. The arguments for and against moving at this time last year were 50/50 at best. I thought God made it graciously and providentially clear that it was time via the gift of the house we live in now. There are so many little details to the story that are too specific to be an accident.
And yet. I find myself doubting. An old quote came to mind today as I struggled to be present on a hike with my kids: “If you believe that God is good, His sovereign hand is sweet. If you believe that God is not good, his sovereign hand is bitter.”
This month marks two years since Ross and I separated (we are no longer separated), which was followed by 18 months of dark days and long nights. Eighteen months of believing that God got it very, very wrong. That my obedience in him was misplaced. That everyone will eventually let me down. That not even God is faithful. This is what trauma does. It lies to you about who you are and what you can expect out of life.
In spite of all the good and necessary work I’ve done and things that I’ve learned in the past two years, all the hope I’ve found in the last year, all the miracles I’ve witnessed in the last 6 months, that’s been the last point I’ve been skirting around. Because if God isn’t good, he made empty promises about rest and home and new beginnings when we moved. And I was stupid to believe him once again.
But living under that assumption is unbearable. Unsustainable. Hopeless.
So... what if God is good?
What if he is sovereign? What if he loves me lavishly and I always belong in him? What if he’s the anchor I need when my thoughts drift to dark places? What if C.S. Lewis got it right in the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe?
“Aslan is a lion— the Lion, the great Lion."
"Ooh" said Susan. "I'd thought he was a man. Is he quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion"
...”Safe?" said Mr Beaver ..."Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”
What if, once again, I started asking God to meet my deepest needs and trusting that he would provide like he has promised? What if he really offers abundantly more than I could ever ask or imagine? What if he will return the years the locusts have eaten?
At this point, what do I have to lose?
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