And so it begins.
My husband just packed the truck full with the little bit of furniture we have. The pink desk. Our lopsided shelves. Now the china bowl from Zanzibar with the crack in it that I love because she said it reminded her of us, is empty on the floor.
I remind myself that change is good. Change means progress. But my heart, she is stubborn.
I do not have much predictability in this life. Things are never stable on this adventure in Africa, but I’d become attached to this space. This constant, in a universe of alterations. I always have to remain flexible here. If the rains don’t come….if the rains do come. There are never any certainties.
I think of how often our women must feel that. Don’t know where the next meal will come from for their children, or how long they might have to live. Their pain cuts a little deeper than mine.
So when we are sick, we pray. And where there is no hope, we see hope.
And when the heart is broken, we sing.
Because I know only this: that He is working for my good. Our good.
I know it will be better. But how to let go of the good for the better? The sacrifice squeezes my heart.
Risk is a rickety bridge towards trust. Sometimes we get a little too comfortable.
We forget how to leap. And belief the biggest risk of all.
Sometimes He has to teach us again.
But what is a home really? These paint and boards don’t define me. They don’t make me my own.
If I make my heart His home, then Home is wherever He is. And wherever I go.
Then wherever I go, there must be a miracle about to break forth.
