They say it takes two years

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Two years ago, we played Tetris with all of our earthly possessions, stuffing and shoving and twisting them juuuust so into two giant PODS and the back of our (smokin’ hot) minivan. We waved goodbye to the POD men and began a three month odyssey of moving from one place to the next until we finally found and bought a house.

It’s been a hard, hard two years.

The first year was spent just trying to figure out our place in this new town. We spent a lot of time mourning the loss of seeing and being with people who were more than just friends – they were family. That first year was spent visiting the beach, sticking our toes in the sand and trying to convince ourselves that we made the right choice – that everything would be okay.

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The Beach – God’s Glory Land…

“It takes two years in a new town to feel settled,” we heard from more than one person and I’ve clung to that adage these last 24 months. On the nights when we’ve paced the house in the wee hours of the morning fighting hyperventilation and panic attacks, I’ve told myself to wait for that magic two year mark. Other days, as I felt lost in loneliness, I searched out the Facebook pages of my dear friends so far away for some connection to the life I missed, and I told myself it wouldn’t be long before this all got better.

After the first year, I felt like the worst of the mourning had passed and we finally began the arduous task of rooting ourselves to this new place. We found a church, made some friends and looked for ways to plug ourselves into this place that we desperately needed to call home.

This second year has been equally difficult, but for so many different reasons. So many times I have desperately longed for the friends who knew me best to come close, hold my hand and let me cry. Early on this year, I started to get a little lost inside my twisty head and I knew I needed to get out and meet people or things were going to go down hill quickly. So I found new friends who met me for coffee and even though we hardly knew one another, they listened as I let my broken heart roll down my cheeks. Just thinking about those glimmering moments of grace in such a dark time brings tears to my eyes once again.

Moving is hard. It’s so very, very hard to start over, to not be known, to feel like you have to smile when you just want to cry. But one thing our new friends have taught me these last two years is that there’s no faster way to get to know and love someone than to be raw and real with them. I could have stuffed all my sorrow inside and kept it hidden, but I would have been a miserable person as a result.

IMG_1310They let me be real. They passed me notes in church when they noticed my eyes were full of tears. They called just to check on me, to make sure I wasn’t staying in seclusion. When I apologized for crying so much they shook their heads and told me not to worry about it as tears glistened in their own eyes.

These people who were practically strangers felt my pain and in so doing, they took some of it on themselves, relieving me of carrying the burden on my own. 

They say it takes two years in a new town to feel settled and I’m embracing this two year mark. I still miss St. Louis so deeply that sometimes I feel a physical ache in my chest. I miss my friends so very much. Just today I called three of them because I just needed a little more than a Facebook status.

In two weeks, we head back to the ‘Lou to touch home base again. I think it will be perfect timing. Five days won’t be enough time, but it will quell the ache of the heart enough to allow us to continue to grow here – to continue to plant roots and gain a familiarity with this new place we call home.

Yesterday, I woke up, got dressed and it dawned on me that I was really excited to go to church. I was excited to see the people that are settling into that special place in my heart that’s reserved for the closest of family and friends. It’s been two years since we waved goodbye and I think “they” were right.

It’s starting to feel like home.

Signs

We rolled into Florida today, my smokin’ hot minivan dragging a bit under the weight of all the life shoved inside.  It has been an emotional roller coaster, this trip into town.  Of course any move is fraught with emotion.  Change hurts.  It’s hard.  Tears must be shed in order to cleanse the soul of the fire that rages in your heart.

As we talked today on our second day of driving, we discussed the Why. Why did we make this move?  What purpose did God have in picking our family up out of everything comfortable and placing us smack dab in the middle of the unknown.  For all practical purposes, this is our wilderness.  Albeit a wilderness with a beach (the best kind), but nonetheless this is our journey.

Why are we here?

Suddenly the reasons for the move become clouded beneath the emotion.  Did we make the right choice?  Was this really the path we were supposed to take?  Did we somehow misread the signs?  Were we instead chasing our own desires, or own passions?

Why?

While at my in-laws this past weekend, we had the blessing of soaking in their wisdom for several days straight.  One thing my father-in-law (one of the three wisest men in my life, my dad and my husband rounding out the trio) said to us has really stuck with me.

“What makes you think,” he said in his thick Arkansas drawl, “that you had anything at all to do with this decision?  It was God who moved you in this direction.  Don’t forget that God is in full control.  When you are seeking Him, you’re not going to make a mistake.”

What freedom that gave us.  And what a wonderful lesson on which to dwell.  Who are we to question the will of God?  There were times when doubt caused us to wonder if, perhaps, we should scrap the plan all together – flee back to St. Louis.  It’s peaceful there, simple.  We know it.  We know what we can and need to do there to stay comfortable.

But then what?  Comfort is boring.  As we drove today, the Cyprus and Palm trees buzzing by our windows, I held a book in my lap.  “Reading the same page of a book over and over is boring,” I told Lee.  “You have to turn the page to see what’s going to happen next in the story.”

We turned the page when we left St. Louis.  Not that staying there would have meant our story stagnated, but ignoring God’s call and being unwilling to face something new would have been extremely boring.  To live life wondering “what if we had?” would be a terrible burden to bear.  And even on our trip, the Lord gave us little signs that we are on the right path – we are continuing our story.

Lee was given the opportunity to fly up to Arkansas to be with his family and to help us drive down here.  An unexpected blessing and something we didn’t know we needed.  Lee got a very encouraging call from his manager.  It was unexpected and unprompted.  And the words spoken and messages exchanged were a balm to the soul.

As we lay in our frigid hotel room last night, everyone slowly drifting to sleep, Sloan hopped up out of bed and came over to Lee and I.  “I have something for you,” he said, the freckles on his nose dancing in the golden lamp light.  He pulled two silly bands off his arm.  They were shaped like palm trees.  “These are to help you remember that we used to live in St. Louis, but now we live in Florida.”

How did he know that was the exact thing tearing at our hearts?  We hadn’t spoken of our fears and heartache in front of him.

When we pulled out of the hotel parking lot this morning, the kids screeched and pointed at a beautiful rainbow painted across the gray sky.  God’s promises never fail.  He is still the same.  All of these signs worked together to provide a bit of comfort as we continued to haul our lives southward.  Nothing about this move has been easy.  A part of me feels a bit like a spoiled brat who’s finally been given what she wanted, but it’s not enough.

“I want it MY way.”  Foot stomp.

I want comfort and stability.  I want the perfect house.  I want it easy and fun.  I want friends.  I want, I want, I want…

The new goal is to take my eyes off of what I want.  Together Lee and I are changing our focus.  We’re turning the page.  We want to know what’s going to happen next.  And we want to know what part we get to play in it.  To His glory.  Arms stretched out wide, palms open, dancing in the rain.  What’s next?  And how do we keep our eyes pointed up?  Not looking backward and definately not staring inward.

Not about us.

What’s next to His glory?

This is really hard.  Really, really hard.  As my sister-in-law told us the other night – this is a threshing.  It’s a step into the Refiner’s Fire.  The selfishness that has pervaded our souls for a long time needs to be burned away.  There is nothing fun about that.  Nothing at all.  We are feeling vulnerable and the only refuge is God Himself.  To seek any other would be foolish.  There is no hiding – not even St. Louis could shelter us from the need to change these deepest parts.

Join us as we step forward in faith, our hearts open to what He wants and longs for us.  And we would like to join you in whatever journey you might be on.  What does a next step look like for you? Because we’re all on a different journey. How can we pray for you?  What would stepping out of comfort look like for you?  Who can you serve?  What can you do to step outside of what you know?  Or, if you’re already doing that, what are you learning?  If you would like to share or ask for prayer, please feel free to comment and we can all join together.  Or send me an email (kellistuart00 (at) hotmail (dot) com) and I will be happy to lift you up as you turn your face up.

Let’s dance in the rain together.

Blessings.