Things I’m Learning: Reflections on a Year of Transition

It’s been almost a year since we stood in our empty house, said goodbye to our people, and braced ourselves for what was ahead. To say it’s flown by might be cliche but is nonetheless accurate. Jordan is heading into a week of finals, but by Friday he’ll have completed his first year of seminary. He might say it’s too soon to say “We made it!” but I’m going to live by faith. 😉 We made it!

A couple of weeks ago, I sat on the beach with my visiting brother and sister-in-law and reflected on what life is like here. I thought back to leaving Fargo: I remember standing in our empty house on floors we didn’t install, surrounded by walls we didn’t paint, with a fridge filled with food we didn’t cook. I remember holding my breath, wanting to remember God’s provision through His people, fearing we would never know community like that again. But instead, I recalled to them, I could echo similar sentiments here. When I’ve had things going on, friends have stepped in to help with meals and childcare. When my brother visited, friends provided baby supplies and even a car for them to drive. Our relationships here are still new and not always as familiar and comfortable as the ones we built for years in the Midwest. I still have a “vulnerability hangover” frequently. It takes more effort to ask for help. There are still lonely weekends and the feeling that everyone knows something we don’t. But as I took in the year, I was surprised by my assessment: we’re building a home here.

Last year around this time, I told myself: “Take care, lest you forget.” I wanted to remember all the ways God provided for us in our ten years in Fargo. I hoped it would sustain me in the tumultuous year ahead. But as sweet as the Lord’s provision was over those ten years, He didn’t leave us to depend on ten years of past grace — He lavished us daily with mercies new every morning.

I want to mark the end of our first year here with a list of things we’ve learned (some more spiritual than others). I’m sure this list barely scratches the surface, but it’s a start:

“You are never far from ‘your people’ when you are near God’s people.”

A kind man wrote this comment on my blog post last year, and his words have echoed in my ears all year long. I’ll admit I had a hard time believing him. But we’ve found it to be true. We may not have the same shared history with our church and seminary friends here. There is still plenty they don’t know about us (and that we don’t know about them). But we’ve been welcomed and supported and, ultimately, reminded that spiritual friendships cultivated by shared belief in the gospel can take root and grow in ways that surpass our understanding. We’re grateful for new people even as we continue to miss our old ones.

We can do hard things. {And we don’t have to do every hard thing.}

We’ve survived this year living in a small, two bedroom apartment. We went down to one car. We shifted to part-time and pieced-together income. Jordan was a full-time student while working 25 hours per week. This last semester I added two night classes into the mix. We’ve juggled schedules and finances, operated on less sleep than we should have, and attempted to make friends, spend time investing in our marriage, persevere in parenting, keep up with homework and activities, participate in church life, and explore living in San Diego county. Even though I learned early into this journey that I actually hate doing hard things, we’ve done a lot of hard things anyway — some with more grace than others.

But in the midst of that, I’ve also learned the power of a strategic, “No.” I don’t have to do every hard thing. (And sometimes saying no actually is the hard thing!) Only a couple of months into living here, I realized homeschooling was one of those things that would just be too much. And with the kids in school, there were other “No’s” that were necessary right now: I wasn’t a “Room Mom,” I didn’t get to go on field trips, I didn’t join the parents’ group, and our kids didn’t get to do every activity. I’ve had to lower my expectations for a clean apartment, let go of projects I’d like to do, turn down jobs I wanted, and release my fear of missing out as I say no to things that don’t fit our life right now.

Living in the tension of saying yes to hard things (and saying no to things we might like to do) hasn’t been straightforward, and navigating it has been exhausting. We’re tired. But this year has been so good.

My husband is Superman.

He has sacrificially served our family in countless ways, while rocking his seminary classes and continuing his career as an electrical engineer. Sometimes I’m so annoyed with him wrestling with our kids on the living room floor because I know he has work to do. And then (sometimes) I stop myself and consider what a privilege it is to be married to this man, who will let the studying wait because he knows his kids need time with him. He eats breakfast with them every morning and tucks them in almost every night. In the midst of all he’s doing, he’s made sacrifices to allow me to take classes and continue to pursue writing. This man, you guys. How did I get so lucky?

My kids are brave and resilient. 

I was so worried about what this move would do to them, but I’ve found instead that I have much to learn from them.

I am limited.

Duh, right? But this year has exposed my limitations in ways that have been so good for me. I need more sleep than I wish I did. I can’t drink endless amounts of coffee. I need breaks from people and breaks for people. And I have SO much more to learn.

But I’ve also seen the Lord’s strength more clearly as I become more and more aware of my weakness. Supporting Jordan, caring for my kids, doing all the things I want to do — The hard reality has been this: I can’t do it all. Balls will drop. I’ll let people down. I’ll disappoint myself. In my humiliation, I’m learning to identify grace more readily. From the fullness of Christ, I receive grace upon grace. He sustains me (and my people) even when it seems like everything is falling apart.

The beach has healing powers.

Seriously. There’s just something about being reminded how small you are. I need it at least weekly.

The Lord provides.

This is another thing people told us when we moved but I can’t even tell you how much it’s been true. Every month I’ve sat down to balance our ever-varying income and expenses, and every month they’ve balanced. It’s insane. The Lord has provided incredible new housing for us to move into for our remaining few years here. He’s provided a church and friends that already feel like family. He’s provided amazing teachers for our kids. He’s provided time and energy and opportunities. He’s provided trips home and visitors just when we need them. And He’s provided Southern California! Ocean! Mountains! Big city!

I still miss my people.

I wanted to “arrive” this year. To feel totally settled here, to stop calling North Dakota “home,” to say, “my people” and mean those near and far. And in some ways, the Lord has graciously moved us in that direction. But then I’ll get blindsided by homesickness at the most inopportune times. I went to a women’s retreat at a local church and could not. stop. crying. because it reminded me how much I missed participating in ministry in our church, how sweet my time was there, how much I miss my team. We stood in for Grandparents Day and I wept to the grandma sitting next to me about how much I miss my mom. My brother and sister-in-law came and I thought I was okay to put them back on the plane but cried the whole way home. Some things are so familiar they hurt, because in their familiarity they feel wrong — different, foreign, disconnected. Like I look up and realize, “Something’s not right here. People are missing.”

People are missing. New ones have stepped in, but the old ones are in fact irreplaceable. There’s a grief to that that’s just there, lingering beneath the surface — a steady reminder that the home I long for is something beyond what I’ll experience here, or back in North Dakota — anywhere on this side of eternity.

Jen Pollock Michel says, “To be human is to be homesick.” I know this all too well after this year. But she goes on: “To be human in Christ is to have a home.” I’m grateful to say I’m learning this as well.

Hospitality isn’t about your house. {Visitors welcome!}

I loved hosting in our old house, but I don’t love it here. Our apartment is small and some days it feels like we literally live on top of each other. It’s hard for me to invite people over because it feels so cramped and chaotic. This year I’ve been reminded that hospitality isn’t about our houses but about the God who has welcomed us in Christ and calls us to extend that welcome wherever we are. I’m slow to learn, but I’m also grateful for this lesson to practice welcome wherever God has placed us.

And, let’s be honest. I’m grateful to be moving into a space that’s a *little* bigger and *much* nicer. And, just for the record — this one will have a guest bed. 🙂