When new is scary and you want to go home

Sometimes you get yourself into a new situation and everything that is happening around you is strange and overwhelming and all you want to do is go home. That's where I was Friday night, half-way into a project called "Operation unpack-all-your-stuff-and-throw-lots-away", when I realized too late that it was too much for that evening. I wanted to go home. However, that wasn't an option because unlike Dorothy and Todo, I was home. But house and home are two very different things and to me it felt more like I was intruding into someone else's space with my stuff and hoping they wouldn't notice. 

Unfortunately, with the way my stuff was strewn about, it was impossible to not be noticed. I looked around me after a while and was admittedly a bit overwhelmed. It was at this moment that my Mom popped in to check in on my progress and empathize with me that it was a rather difficult task. This whole moving thing, this changing, transitioning, relocating, whatever name you might give it, is hard. 

We were all physically exhausted because of hauling, lifting, and sorting, but it was more than just physical--emotionally it felt rather strange and tiring as well. Strange and tiring because we were quite happy to be moving, yet for some reason I felt sad about it. I went back to our old house after the majority of our home was moved into the new place and sat down in the empty living room, feeling oddly melancholy. From a circumstantial point of view, this new house will be much nicer because its architecture and layout is pleasantly designed. Unlike the old place, a slapped together 1950's cottage of sorts, this house has a nice flow and lots of natural lighting which makes for a great living space. I also know beyond a doubt that this is the place God wants us to be. He provided it so perfectly and with such wonderful timing, it was absolutely answered prayer and nothing less than that.

Yet I do not feel comfortable in this new house. 

I drank a glass of water in the lovely little kitchen and felt as if I was being bombarded by a hundred sensations of discomfort. Just let me alone to drink my water, please and thank you. But no, instead I am overcome by this sense of newness and it's a little scary. Doing a mundane act like drinking water feels new and unusual because there are aspects of the place that I have yet to grasp with my mind. 

But this is how it is with any change or transition in our lives, isn't it? Whether it be a new relationship, a new school, a new church, a new job, or a new pair of shoes, it just feels...weird. When things change, the usual becomes unusual and comfort is found in the strangest things that have some sort of memory in them, like a chair which we brought from our old house, my bed quilt which my Grandma gave me when I was 12, and the paintings that we hang on the walls. 

As I sat in that empty living room, the place where we'd huddled around warm Winter fires and sipped tea, the place where I'd read countless school assignments, the place where life happened, I began to realize what I was feeling and why.

I was feeling uprooted, because that's what moving does. Transplanting is never easy, but it is good. I have transplanted countless plants in my time and they always wither in their new spot, yet the gardener knows what is best for them. The gardener knows that after a while, the new lighting, the different soil, the change of temperature will serve them well. The old soil of memories and good things which have happened in the past nine months that we've lived in the 1950's cottage is no longer what I'm growing in. I am now in this new soil and my roots need something to cling to, but there's nothing old that I can cling to, everything is shockingly new. These hallways have no memories, this kitchen has no meals or laughter yet, and this bedroom is foreign. 

So I am faced with a choice. I can choose to cling to the past memories of the old house and despair at the future that this house might hold, or I can let go of those memories, be thankful for them in how they point towards God's faithfulness, and look ahead with expectancy towards God of all that He has for me, for my family, and for this new home. I may not have memories to cling to, but I have hope. In this hope of Christ, I can be expectant and joyful in the midst of dawning unknowns. When everything else is stripped away and your life is packed up in boxes, you have to realize that the blank canvas in front of you is the best opportunity for expecting good things from the Father. 

It's either that or despair. 

Despair is easy, you can let it take you over in any area of your life. Or you can choose to hope and let that take over every area of your life. Be hopeful in the new relationships in your life, be hope-filled in the new job you're working, be hopeful if you're still looking for a job, be expectant of God if you're feeling fearful in a new city, new church, or new school. 

Look ahead and don't just drift around, because remaining neutral is not an option. Anyone who drives a standard car knows that you can't let yourself stay neutral for long. You're the one who has to make the shift and it will be either up or down a gear. As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord, and that means shifting up a gear in hope, trusting the Lord for my future and all that it holds.