Lessons in Processing: Facing Reality

It would be an understatement to say that we process things differently.

I digest quietly, the gears turning inside my head as I wash the dishes and stare out the window. It could be hours before I’m able to verbally express.

Travis is a bubbling brook; his thoughts flow out of his mouth here and there, dreams and convictions, new scenarios at every turn.

Every single day we are checking emails and each application’s status, hoping for news one way or the other. Every day the emotion of all of this is pushing in on us, changing the atmosphere of our family. Somehow, instead of our bread multiplying, it’s the piles of dirty laundry that seem to grow.

I look around during the day and I close my eyes at night, making a checklist of things we need to get rid of to make a move easier. Is there anything you need? Ask me. I’ve got a quesadilla maker and so much more.

With such joy we look to the future! With such trust and hope! And yet my stomach turns and aches with the unknown of it all, and for all the joy, our hearts could cave in with sadness at the thought of leaving our friends and neighbors, who have become our family.

A dear friend reminded us last week that in this next move, in this next season, we will really establish who we are. It will just be us, us and God and every ounce of small faith we can muster. Then the adventure really begins.

So there it is. We are moving. We are moving. Perhaps this is the most emotional thought of all, and the one that’s got me processing as I rock Isaiah to sleep and Travis processing in the bathtub with a book and ink pen.

I guess it’s a lot like nesting dolls, and every new realization opens a world of emotion we didn’t realize existed between or within us.

So to keep myself tethered, I will keep writing out Hebrews in hopes that God consoles and speaks.

I will keep singing and playing, worshipping and believing.

I will keep cleaning, and yes, someday every single piece of clothing in this house will be clean, if even for only an hour.

I will keep reflecting, because when I finally break down and have a good cry, it’s going to be because I really need it.

I will keep baking, because it brings me a staggering amount of comfort these days.

I’ve got to slowly say goodbye to four years, and slowly lean into the next…that is quite a process, indeed.