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Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

staying in one place

The leaving and the staying

October 16, 2019

I started this blog post in early summer, but in reality, I was writing it months before that. I probably started it in late April when we got some news about our dearest friends. But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

Sometimes when I write to process my feelings, that means I’ve dealt with my feelings, but when the anxiety put itself front and center last month, a friend gently suggested that maybe there was something I hadn’t dealt with yet. “Just wondering  if some of the struggle this summer is that you’re grieving … but maybe not acknowledging and grieving it well.”

First, let me say, that it is a gift to have friends who will say this kind of thing. Did it hurt a little to read? Yes, but only because there is truth to it. I have been grieving something all summer, but I haven’t let myself truly feel the weight of that grief.

—

In April, we learned that our dearest, closest friends–the ones who feel like family–were moving to Arizona. If you didn’t know, Arizona is thousands of miles away from Pennsylvania. My heart cracked right down the middle when I heard the news, even as I wanted to celebrate this next step in their family journey.

In May, we planned a get-together on Memorial Day. They came to our house. We ate. We drank. I cried. A lot. I almost couldn’t talk about the reason we were getting together. I could not acknowledge that this would be the last time we would gather in this way. Every time I looked at our friends, I burst into a fresh round of tears until I finally said, “Tell me why this is a good thing for you. Tell me what you’re looking forward to.” And that got my mind off of our loss and their gain.

I grieved as much for our kids as for myself. Our kids have grown up together. We have known these friends for three-quarters or more of our children’s lives. Our sons have been mistaken for twins or brothers on numerous occasions because their birthdays are only a month apart.

(Their fathers also have been mistaken for brothers.) And we have watched our daughters grow from little girls to young ladies.

That day at our house, the kids played together and tried to say goodbye as best they could. Our two gave small tokens of remembrance to each of their three children. And when it was time to say goodbye, well, I can hardly talk about it. We took a billion selfies outside under the dogwood tree, and we made promises of visits in the not-too-distant future. We hugged and cried and hugged some more and when they pulled out of our driveway, I felt like part of my heart had gone with them.

It would be another month before they left but summer being summer, we weren’t going to see them again.

On the day they started their cross-country trek, I could think of almost nothing else. Technology being what it is, we texted and I followed along with Facebook and Instagram posts.

It was really happening, and I could only watch from our place in Pennsylvania.

—

It took me a while to find words to describe what I was feeling. It was the leaving, yes, and the change to our friendship. (It is not a loss. We still communicate. Maybe more than we did when they lived here, but I miss their faces and their actual physical presence in our lives.) 

But it was also the staying.

Photo by Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash

In 12 years of our married life, Phil and I have always been the leavers. After our honeymoon, we left our hometown for a central Illinois town offering us schooling and work. A year later, we left there for an even smaller town in Pennsylvania for further schooling. Our five years there was longer than I thought we’d stay, but we knew when we moved there that it wouldn’t be a permanent place for us. The next move brought us to where we are now, a farmhouse “apartment” our kids have outgrown, steady employment and rich relationships.

As much as we love Lancaster, I never thought we’d be the ones to stay while others we cared about left. Leaving is ourjob, I’ve thought, and I’ve spent lots of time wondering why I think that. I also realized that when we were the ones who were leaving, I didn’t think as much about the ones we left behind. Leaving is exciting even when there’s sadness. Leaving is also stressful but it feels like a good kind of stressful because there is hope and change and possibility in the future.

Staying sometimes feels like being stuck. As I watched our friends follow God’s leading, as they prayed for His provision for jobs and purpose, I was a bit envious. And then I was embarrassed by my jealousy. I hadn’t been asking God to do anything big or life-changing. I had stopped praying for anything resembling a purpose or that would take miraculous intervention. I was trusting in only what I could see, what I thought was manageable. 

Maybe we were stuck, I thought, because I was stuck in unbelief.

—

Sameness comes easy to me. If I don’t have to rock the boat, I won’t. I don’t rearrange the furniture on a whim or change my hairstyle to whatever is fashionable. I like schedules and routines but also choosing to sit in one place and read a book for hours.

I’m what inertia would look like if it was human. If I’m at rest, I’m staying at rest. If I’m moving, I’m going to stay moving. Until an outside force acts on me to change the resting or the moving. 

Our friends leaving for a new home on the other side of the country is one of those outside forces.

I know we can’t live in this house forever, but taking the steps to change that is daunting. We saw a place we were interested in this summer, got back in touch with our real estate agent and the bank, secured a letter telling us the amount of loan we could afford only to find out that we were a day late and the property we were interested in had gone under contract the weekend before we got all our ducks in a row.

The house search has been stagnant ever since, but I wonder if we’d have even bothered to take those other steps if we hadn’t seen the way God provided for our friends.

—

On my 40th birthday–almost a year-and-a-half ago now–these friends gave us a gift card to a local craft brewery near their house. “Bring the kiddos to us and enjoy a date night,” they said. For whatever reason, the gift card sat unused so we found ourselves more than a year after the gift driving the familiar roads toward our friends’ house after they’d already left for Arizona. My husband wondered if this would be too hard, driving so close to where they had lived, to the home that was always open and welcoming to our family. It was and it wasn’t. I almost felt like we should drive by the house just to prove to my eyes that they were gone, but seeing pictures on the Internet was enough to convince me.

I thought of them often as we ate and drank, even sending a text to show the number of sample glasses at our table while I tried to make up my mind about which beer to drink. 

Before they left, they had gifted us a bookshelf, and earlier that same day, we moved the bookshelf to its new place along a wall in our living room. We filled it with books, which felt like another fitting tribute to our friends. Between us, numerous books exchanged hands as well as countless book-related conversations. I think of them whenever I look at it.

Part of saying goodbye is mourning a loss but it’s also remembering the good times. I don’t believe the good times are over for our two families. We are planning a vacation out west to visit them next summer. I believe we will pick up where we left off. It might be different, but it will still be good.

—

At a writers retreat this summer, someone asked me if it was always the same, meaning was the content repetitive from year to year. The format of the retreat was the same and the location had been the same for years. It had been two years since I first attended, and what I noticed about the retreat was how different it was for me because I was different. At a different place in my writing. More confident in myself as a whole person. Others at the retreat voiced a similar sentiment. One of them noted that sometimes we need sameness to notice the differences in ourselves. 

It was a powerful observation, and I’m wondering what I would have missed about my own rebirth, my own unbecoming and renewal if my life hadn’t been steady with a measure of sameness these past few years.

In other words, staying doesn’t have to mean “stuck.” Maybe it just means “steady.”

—

I’m still processing my grief over our friends’ move.

And I’m seeing how much we relied on their friendship to sustain us. We are having to invest in other relationships as a family, not as a replacement for our friends but because we need people in proximity to us. It takes work to build friendships. Ours certainly didn’t happen overnight, although it sometimes feels like that. This summer, we experienced some deepening of friendships, and we know we will have to work to maintain those relationships.

—

I have no tidy ending for these thoughts because grief is not tidy. Nor does it have a time limit. Some days I miss our friends more than others. There’s always an empty space, a bit of an ache, but it doesn’t always hurt to the core.

I’m remembering these words from Glennon Doyle in her book Love Warrior: “Grief is love’s souvenir. It’s our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I loved well. Here is my proof that I paid the price.”

I’m grateful that this friendship isn’t truly lost, and I know now that it’s okay to grieve the change in it.

Filed Under: faith & spirituality, Friendship Tagged With: friends moving away, grief, inertia, staying in one place

Should we stay or should we go? (And is there a third option?)

June 15, 2015

It’s been two years since we signed the lease on this partial house that feels like home most days. How we got here is a story all in itself, and if you haven’t heard it, you can read the back story on this blog. (Search for the category “how we got here” in the drop down menu on the sidebar.)

And so we’re here. Still. A year ago, I was in awe of the work God was doing in our lives, the healing He was working just by us being here in this place. It was good, that first year, the kind of rest and recovery we needed after a hard season.

Now, at the end of our second year here, there’s a stirring in my soul and I’m still deciding if it’s holy or selfish or something in between.

See, part of me wants to stay. Here. Forever. Or at least until my kids are done with school. We love our district and the school our daughter attends, which will soon be the school of both of our children. I am making friends with moms at the school and we enjoy living in an area that is diverse and speaks to our love of both city and country. It is becoming home as much as any place can and I am reluctant to even consider leaving it.

Another part of me thinks that’s selfish, though. To be comfortable and happy in a place–is that okay? Doesn’t God want us to suffer a little when we’re following Him? Why would He allow us such joy?

And yet it’s there, in the Old Testament, spoken to a people who spent a hard season, generations really, in slavery in a foreign land. To them, God says, Enjoy the land I’m giving you. Settle down there. Raise your families. Feast on the harvest.

I know these are not direct promises to our family’s situations but these words show me a God who cares about His people, especially those who have suffered. We can rest in His goodness. We can enjoy good things. Not every season has to be a trial. It is okay to flourish in a place that may or may not be home.

—

Our church had a Skype call with some missionary friends recently. They have served in their country for five years without a lot of results, at least the kind you can see. Our friend expressed his family’s weariness, their wonderings if maybe it was time to move on and find a place that was more receptive to the Good News of Jesus.

Five years seems like a long time, but when Jesus spoke about the kingdom of God, He compared it to things that were small and slow and steady. A mustard seed that doesn’t look like much but grows into a giant tree. Yeast that is almost imperceptible but works through the whole dough. A wheat harvest. There were no timelines, no instant-growth guarantees. Just constancy and faithfulness.

That’s hard.

Sometimes I wish it were easier.

—

I am mildly obsessed with houses that are for sale. Anytime I see a for sale sign on one of our routes through town, I make a mental note to look it up when I get home, and then I google and scan real estate sites, looking to see how much and what the house is like on the inside.

A house, to me, would mean we were staying. At least for a while. And staying only makes sense if we’re certain. At least that’s what I think. A mortgage, a home that we’re not renting, those are commitments. And there is a bit too much uncertainty yet for me to feel comfortable with pursuing this dream of a house we can call our own.

But the kids are outgrowing their small shared room and though we are making this house ours as much as we can, it will soon be time for us to move on.

Other things have to happen for that to happen, so we’re calling on the God who moves mountains and parts seas to show us the way.  We cannot find it on our own.

—

Breno Machado | Creative Commons | via unsplash

Breno Machado | Creative Commons | via unsplash

I hate moving, but sometimes going and leaving seem easier than staying.

When I moved back home after college and I was interviewing for jobs, they all asked the same question: how long do you plan to stay? I don’t know if it was because I was 22 or had a restless look in my eyes or what, but my answer was always the same: I’m here until the fall when my best friend gets married. After that, I don’t know.

One job wanted a two-year commitment, which sounded to my 22-year-old self like a life sentence. The job I eventually took I stayed at for 7 years. Life is funny sometimes.

I wanted to go but I was forced to stay and in staying I found friends and a husband and a part of me I didn’t know existed.

Since then, the longest I’ve stayed anywhere was five years, our last home, the place where my husband was in seminary (I still want to write and say “cemetery.”  Freud would have a hey-day with that) and I was constantly looking for a way out.

It’s this way with me: if we’re not going to stay then I’m not going to invest and I know I missed out on relationships and experiences because I was always looking to “next.”

Now, staying has me scared. Because staying means committing. To a place. To a people. It means going deeper in friendships and relationships. It means caring enough to get hurt. It means being faithful even if we don’t see any results.

In some ways, staying feels like giving up. Even though staying is a good thing.

Because once upon a time, we dreamed of leading a church, and that dream could take us in one of many directions: Illinois, Ohio, or parts unknown in Pennsylvania. As long as we were still open to that dream, we could consider getting a call one day that could send us packing.

But the dream has changed. It’s changing still and we can’t really describe it or define it, which makes it difficult to explain. We know more what we don’t want than what we do, and so if we decide to stay here, does that mean we’ve given up on the old dream?

Maybe. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

—

Shannon Richards | Creative Commons | via unsplash

Shannon Richards | Creative Commons | via unsplash

I’m having a hard time hearing from God these days, but that’s my fault, not His. My life is full of distractions and busy-ness and me trying to figure out how to fix everything in my own power and strength, which is almost non-existent.

I am fidgety and restless, desperate for a sign that it’s time to change or move on. I’d even take a clear sign that it’s okay to stay, but so far God doesn’t work like that. If He’s anything, He’s subtle, not because He doesn’t want us to find Him but because He wants us to trust Him. He’s like a guide who has been this way before but carries no map, only the memories of past travels. He is confident in His leading, but to trust Him is an act of faith and takes time.

The more I walk with Him the more I trust Him, but I still get distracted on the path. Worried about bears and snakes and all kinds of trials. Concerned about our provisions for the journey. And like a whining child I ask too often if we’re there yet, even though I have no idea where “there” is.

I imagine His smile as He turns His face toward the sun, basking in another day of life, His steps sure and certain though I see no visible path. When I doubt, He takes my hand and leads. He never gets too far ahead but sets the pace that is best.

—

Should we stay? Should we go?

I think I’m asking the wrong questions. Because, really, it’s not about the where or the when but the who.

Who will I trust? Who is in charge? Who is leading the way?

If it is Jesus, as I say I believe, then the rest of it doesn’t matter. (Remind me of that when I’m ready to take back control.)

He is the way.

He says, “Follow me.”

He has proven himself trustworthy.

It is time for me to trust Him again.

Filed Under: faith & spirituality, family Tagged With: commitment, moving, staying in one place

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Hi. I’m Lisa, and I’m glad you’re here. If we were meeting in real life, I’d offer you something to eat or drink while we sat on the porch letting the conversation wander as it does. That’s a little bit what this space is like. We talk about books and family and travel and food and running, whatever I might encounter in world. I’m looking for the beauty in the midst of it all, even the tough stuff. (You’ll find a lot of that here, too.) Thanks for stopping by. Stay as long as you like.

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