Here I sit, almost three months to the date of our departure from China. In that time we moved into two different houses, started a new job, transitioned five kids into a new school, and dropped our oldest off at college. That is, that’s what happened on the macro level. If you dig down a little into the nitty-gritty details, it’s the granular things that tell the real story.
Like walking into church on a Sunday morning, and feeling like a complete foreigner. And then doing it again at a different church, and then again. And while sitting and listening, or standing and singing, or praying, or lifting hands (or not), being made keenly aware of the many forms our worship takes. Each gathering has its own method and way of doing things, and each hopes and believes that God is doing a work there.
And there is a large part of me that is encouraged by this; that sees the beauty of this small, serious-minded group and this other charismatic, highly polished group, and even remembers the hodge-podge international fellowship we were once a part of, and can see them all as a testament to the varied beauty of God’s people gathered. And then there is this other part of me that wonders at it.
Perhaps it is just a part of the destabilizing nature of moving and of change, where you go so suddenly from being heavily invested in one place and people, to another place and people. It feels like switching allegiances, and suddenly wanting or expecting everyone including God to follow suit. Now we are praying over and asking for you to work HERE and for the good of THIS place.
Of course, He has been working in and caring for these people and places long before we got here. WE are the ones who can only be in one place at a time. And so the confusion is on my end. On the granular level, I find myself praying anew, with fervor for faces and situations, but also with questions. Like, where are you in THIS place?
I’ve also spent more time than I care to report on all of the purchases and returns that setting up a home apparently requires. Is it necessary to buy everything twice, sometimes three times? At one point I had three bed frames sitting on my porch— two to be returned and the third hopefully a keeper. The first couch we bought had a broken frame. The first coffee maker burned the coffee.
We are learning about things like school dress codes, and where to buy collared shirts for girls that are both cute and meet the standard, and how to shop for all the children’s clothing needs with a 2 year old who cannot abide (answer: not all together).
I am learning the lay of my neighborhood; the way the trees look with the sun rising through them each morning, the way autumn spreads itself slowly over New England, the homeless men and women who frequent the street corners, the people who have lived here forever, the people who are transplants like us.
I am learning that our old routines do not easily transfer to our new situation. This shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is another piece of the transition puzzle that takes time to figure out and in the meantime makes you feel all out of sorts and, well, a bit jagged around the edges.
In many respects, our lifestyle is much the same. Josh is working at a Christian school, where our kids also attend. I am at home caring for our littlest one and keeping our home-life running smoothly-ish. But on the granular level, the little changes make a big difference. The lack of a commute is both a blessing and something Josh misses. The kids still only play sports at school, but the schedule is much fuller. We are grateful for no bus-rides but my afternoons to get things done has been almost entirely erased. And so we find ourselves adrift and scrambling, wondering how to make the time for the things that anchor us.
I am wondering how and when I will continue to write? We are wondering how we will continue to meet together as a family? We are trying to figure out how to make time for our bodies, our souls, our friendships, our family.
I was reminded this week, as I read through the story of Solomon’s rise and fall as king of Israel and God’s hand in the fateful decision of his son, Rehoboam that brought about the division of the kingdom— God was at work and probably no one at the time would have thought so. The things we pray for, the way we see the situations around us, the criteria that we use to determine whether He is on the move or not, it’s all very dim and obscured on our end. I am taking comfort in that. I am letting it instruct me.
Here’s to plodding through the beautiful day by day, seeking the face of God in it all, and believing that yes, from the crowded city streets of Tianjin to the tree lined, rainy driveways of Massachusetts my Father is always working.