moving

May 27, 2016

Friday Favorites for May

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Happy Friday, everyone! Here are a few of my recent favorites for this month.

For anyone who is looking for a literary vacation this summer . . .

Here is a fun quiz about the number of literary landmarks you’ve visited. Or you can use it to make it your vacation wish list: How Many of These Literary Landmarks Have You Been To?

For anyone itching to move . . .

Did you know that a third of all Americans would move to another state if they could? This fascinating map shows where people are most content (and discontent) with where they live. No shocker here, but apparently people in Hawaii are pretty happy to stay where they are. See where your state ranks: Map of States Where People Want to Move Away

For anyone in their 30s or 40s . . .

Beth Moore offers these words of encouragement to those who have come of age spiritually: “You didn’t know it was going to be like this. You had no idea what you’d stepped into. You think you must have done something wrong to make it this hard.” To Servants of Jesus in Your 30s and 40s

For anyone who has had a long year . . .

Kara Tippetts started a mommy blog called Mundane Faithfulness several years ago. She had no way of knowing at the time that she would later be diagnosed with breast cancer, and this would become a spot for her to share God’s faithfulness in the midst of her pain. This post was written by her husband, a year after her death. It’s a beautiful picture of how God’s grace shows up even in the hardest of years. A Long Year

For anyone who knows the dread of getting the c-word diagnosis . . .

If anyone you love has been affected by cancer, you will be touched by this true story by a mom whose son Chase was diagnosed with a brain tumor before his third birthday. You will be inspired by this little boy who is full of life and courage and laughter in the midst of a diagnosis his parents never would have chosen. To find helpful tips on what to say to someone who has recently been diagnosed with cancer, visit the Chase Away Cancer site. To read the whole inspiring story, you can order the book, Chase Away Cancer.

August 12, 2015

Nesting

The day after we unloaded a U-haul with all our earthly possessions and deposited everything at our new home, my father-in-law posed this question to Daniel and me: “Hey, do you guys have a chainsaw?”

At that point I wasn’t even sure where I could find two matching shoes, but even if I’d done a better job labeling the boxes, I was pretty sure the answer was no. We’d never had our own yard before, which meant we were pretty lacking in everything power-tool related. Besides, why would we need a chainsaw?

As it turned out, Daniel’s dad had identified a knotty pine tree that was encroaching on the driveway of our new house, and he was ready to take it down. The guys went outside to scope it out, only to return soon than I’d expected.

“No need for a chainsaw now,” Daniel said.

“Really? Why not?”

“Come here. I’ll show you.”

And there, in the lowest branch of the tree, was a dove perched on her nest.

“We can’t take down a tree with a nest in it,” Daniel said.

He was right. We’d spent the past 48 hours packing and unpacking, carrying unwieldy objects up and down stairs, and generally boycotting sleep to get everything settled. We were just beginning to realize how much work is involved in making a house a home. How could we have the heart to evict our feathered tenant?

So we let her stay.

We’ve been causing quite a commotion in the dove’s neighborhood ever since we moved in—hauling in boxes, revving up a borrowed lawnmower to cut the grass, cleaning long-neglected gutters. But Mama Bird just sits on her perch—not squawking at us, but not budging either.

I greet her each evening when I get home from work, walking past her home and into mine. She and I have a lot in common, I think. We’re both feathering our nests, trying to make them comfortable and hospitable and conducive to life.

This is the first home my husband and I have bought together, and there’s something special to be said for that. He moved into the condo I’d bought before we got married, and while that was practical and logical and right for that season, it never really felt like ours.

And what I’m learning as we settle into this place together is perhaps the same thing our nesting guest intuitively knows: It’s more about the ones in the nest than how perfect the nest itself is. Our nest is a little messy (there are boxes still to unpack and items flung rather haphazardly in closets), and it certainly isn’t Pinterest worthy, with its mismatched color schemes and kitchen tile that dates to circa 1987.

But that’s okay. I want this place to be a haven—a place where everyone who lives here can recharge and soak up grace and love and get ready to go into the big world. And I want it to be a place of hospitality—a place where everyone who walks through the door feels wrapped in warmth and welcome, a place where they get a taste of grace.

I want to remember that it’s not about the nest; it’s about the ones the nest is there to protect and nurture.

So we still have a knotty pine tree in our front yard—along with one wise bird who has a lot to teach me about feathering my nest.

Home is the nicest word there is.
Laura Ingalls Wilder

June 24, 2015

How Do You Say Goodbye to a Place?

I sat on the bottom step in my living room last week, looking around at my-house-that-wasn’t-really-my-house anymore. The U-haul was parked at the end of the driveway, filled with every earthly possession my husband and I own. Everything had been packed. Every surface had been cleaned. There was nothing left to do but wait for the closing.

As I sat there, memories of the past decade flashed through my mind. I knew it was time to leave my condo and move into our new home—the first place my husband and I picked out together. But a wave of nostalgia swept over me now that it was time to say good-bye to this place—this place that had played such a significant part in my story.

I longed for some way to mark the moment, for some tangible closure, but I wasn’t sure what that would even look like. How do you say good-bye to a place that had been the staging ground for so much life?

I tried to imagine handing over the keys to my home of eleven years. I didn’t know much about the buyer—only that her name was Veronica, and what her signature looked like. Then the thought came to me, out of the blue: write her a note.

I hesitated, certain she’d think I was crazy. Then again, I’d never have to see her again, right? So I pulled out a yellow pad of paper and a blue felt-tip marker—the only writing implements I could find that weren’t packed away.

Dear Veronica,

Welcome home! I bought this condo when I was twenty-five, wide-eyed and terrified by the ream of papers I was signing without really understanding all the fine print. I was doing this on my own, and I never imagined I’d buy a place by myself. But it turned out to be the perfect spot for me—home to fondue parties with friends, Easter brunches with family crammed into the living room, and slumber parties with my sister. This is where I grew brave and grew up. It’s where I learned to paint a room and cook a lasagna and plant tulip bulbs.

And then something unexpected and delightful happened—I got married, and my husband moved in, along with his three bikes, four guitars, and a dozen houseplants. It’s the place we came back to after our honeymoon, the first home we lived in together. The walls are filled with four years of laughter and words and music, with growing pains and good memories from our newlywed days.

I heard someone say once that your home is a character in your story, and I think that’s true. I don’t know how long you’ll stay here or how your story will unfold, but I pray that this home will be a wonderful character in the story of your life too.

So here’s my benediction, over you and this house: May God bless each moment you spend here, and may he bless each person who walks through these doors.

Stephanie

Then I put the yellow sheet on the counter, right under the spare set of keys, feeling relieved that she wouldn’t read this note until she moved in and I was several cities away.

What I failed to account for was that the walk-through. Meaning she read the note right before I saw her at the closing.

When I entered the huge conference room, I realized my tactical error immediately. I also realized that this was not the place for sappy notes. The room was filled with serious-faced lawyers and professional-looking loan officers and a bunch of other people who looked distinctly unsentimental.

But then I saw Veronica hanging back, motioning for me to come closer. She looked just as wide-eyed as I’d been in her shoes eleven years ago. “Thanks for the note,” she whispered. And I saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Congratulations,” I whispered back.

As I learned in snippets during our paper-signing marathon, she was me—a decade ago. Twenty-five. Single. An eighth-grade teacher.

At the end of the closing, I handed her the keys, and I sensed that something inside me had settled. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, and then it hit me: closure. This was full circle—the closing of a chapter for me as a new one started for her.

I smiled at her and then took Daniel’s hand. It was time to introduce ourselves to the new character in our story.

Happy house to you, Veronica. Happy house.