What Boxes Can’t Contain


I’m back.

Now that a thin layer of dust has settled on the moving boxes, I’ve made some time to steal away for a bit and write. Not that it’s been entirely busy here. It’s more that I’ve been avoiding thinking about some things. Like home. Like work. Like you.

And perhaps you’ve been wondering where I’ve disappeared to and what’s been going on in my neck of the woods. There’s really no short answer. Well, I guess if I just said, “We moved,” that would be a short answer. But it leaves too much to the imagination, in particular why it took me over a month to finally post again. Sure, there were boxes to unpack, pictures to hang and furniture to situate. But I wasn’t as ready to face what was left behind as I thought. So I tried to ignore how much I missed my family, my friends, and everything I’ve come to know as home.

Looking back on the weeks leading up to the move, they were infused with a sort of excitement, a bittersweet one that came from mingled anticipation and sadness. Those weeks hurtled by and Philip and I were off to a new place filled with new people. My mind hummed with ideas of adventures ahead, but these were slowly overtaken by a longing for home. While in Ohio, I was looking forward to some of the things that were coupled with moving across state lines and the promise of change. My eagerness wore off a little more quickly than I expected as my husband soon began his new job (the reason for the move) and I was left to do the exploring on my own. For someone as directionally impaired as myself, navigating in a strange town alone without a GPS can take the fun out of a great many things.

Since then I have learned my way around the area and where the local health food stores and farmer’s markets are tucked away. And the libraries too. Can’t survive without those. Philip and I have visited a couple churches here and I think we’ve found our “home away from home” so to speak. It isn’t the same, but I’m learning it doesn’t have to be.

Settled into the chair next to the sliding glass door, I’m watching the last bits of daylight fade from the horizon and leave ruddy-hued clouds in its wake. The nearby trees are white with blossoms and the newness of spring. In such subtle ways I am reminded of the hope that I have and that it wasn’t left in river valleys of Ohio. Though I have stifled it with fears and worries, hope still remains. And it has begun to flourish again with the realization that this time is a gift. If nothing else, I have opportunity and reason to lean more fully on my Savior, to better learn that He and nothing else is more than enough to satisfy. The days ahead can still be an adventure because my hope lies in the hands of the One who made them.