We’re moving. And I couldn’t be taking it worse.
A couple weeks ago, we decided it was time to be closer to our church community. With family on both sides hours away, we yearn to be in a place where we’re known. We’ve come to find new friends in our little neighborhood in the city, but a few years cannot replace the decades of life lived beside those who reside 15 minutes down 44.
And so we go.
Or rather, we try to go.
After scurrying to get our house on the market in a week, we wait.
That kind of active waiting where I check Zillow 694 times a day. Constantly looking for new houses and seeing how many others have looked at our old one.
I’m terrible at the waiting. My back tightens with knots and my mind struggles to concentrate on much of anything else. I wake early each day with the anxiety of living in this in between.
As I name it, I notice. My dear foster son lives here each day. Court date to court date. Always wondering which home he will be in next. For him, it isn’t simply what the kitchen looks like or whether there are two staircases (though the latter has definitely come up as a must-have for future chase games). It’s who gets to be the one doing the chasing. The one welcoming him home.
It humbles me. Realizing the privilege it is to say our move is stressful. A move I chose. A move where I actually have quite a bit of control on when and where. A move where I know who will be welcoming me home.
These changes feel big, feel hard. Because so much else isn’t. And I take that for granted.