a season of quiet, part 1
In a new country, each day holds the possibility for countless new discoveries. Just stepping outside the door of our home brings opportunities to engage in something out of the ordinary, to be arrested by a new smell, new tastes or new patterns to life.
My nature, however, is to work at making everything seem familiar, predictable. Before we left for Jordan, we shipped our kids' special sheets and blankets for their beds, their snuggly animals to sleep with, and picture frames with photos of friends and family. In the kitchen, the refrigerator is already dotted with the kids' recent masterpieces, favorite photos and Bible verses scribbled onto index cards.
Color, for me, creates comfort. To break up the monotony of brown and beige in the house, I shipped our bright couch pillows and bought a plant with large glossy green leaves and bright fuschia buds.
It is my desire to make a home, wherever we are. Some have commented that this is a special gift, an ability. For me, however, it is a necessity. After living in four different countries and in nine different homes throughout the span of the last thirteen years, having a home where our family can grow, create, live, learn and love together has become a core ideal.
A sense of home lies not just in the material surroundings, but in the rhythm of our lives together. With my best friend in a job where he is called out to duty for days, months and even a year, I have had to learn to keep this rhythm of home life going. To "do the next thing," as Elisabeth Elliot once said about continuing after her loss. Mine is a loss of community, of the predictable, the familiar. This is my load to carry, as a military wife. Others have financial burdens, extended family issues, career choice issues. My husband has a steady income (for now), a steady career (for now) and I don't have the stress of trying to keep good boundaries with extended family (I wish they were closer!)
Having said this, at this point in my life I have to work at stepping out of this resolve to keep things the same, to stay in the old order of things. After living in four different countries, in nine homes during the span of thirteen years, I have few things that remain constant. Every time we move, we remind our kids that when we move and leave friends, their siblings will always be there for them. I know, however, that even in this, there is change. My kids change, go through different seasons. Marriages go through seasons.
The one constant in my life is the One to whom I direct much of my angst, my railings about having to confront so many changes and uncomfortable situations. For now, I'm seeming to be stuck-- emotionally. Not ready to quit mourning what I've lost- for I've just come out of a season in which I needed quite desperately to regain a sense of control, a sense of comfort and routine. The last two years of loss, mourning, constant separation from my hubbie and then the joy of having a fourth child with all of its inherent transitions and adjustments have left me needing quiet.
And perhaps this is just what I have, though I have yet to fully embrace it for the extravagent mercy that this season holds. Without a vehicle, in a new community of friends, cloistered somewhat by my reticence to venture out into Jordanian culture, I have some emotional distance from things.
I just want to lose myself for a while. In this anonymity, this lack of a specific role outside of my home, distanced by the cultural majority, like I'm hibernating. Resting. Preparing.
My nature, however, is to work at making everything seem familiar, predictable. Before we left for Jordan, we shipped our kids' special sheets and blankets for their beds, their snuggly animals to sleep with, and picture frames with photos of friends and family. In the kitchen, the refrigerator is already dotted with the kids' recent masterpieces, favorite photos and Bible verses scribbled onto index cards.
Color, for me, creates comfort. To break up the monotony of brown and beige in the house, I shipped our bright couch pillows and bought a plant with large glossy green leaves and bright fuschia buds.
It is my desire to make a home, wherever we are. Some have commented that this is a special gift, an ability. For me, however, it is a necessity. After living in four different countries and in nine different homes throughout the span of the last thirteen years, having a home where our family can grow, create, live, learn and love together has become a core ideal.
A sense of home lies not just in the material surroundings, but in the rhythm of our lives together. With my best friend in a job where he is called out to duty for days, months and even a year, I have had to learn to keep this rhythm of home life going. To "do the next thing," as Elisabeth Elliot once said about continuing after her loss. Mine is a loss of community, of the predictable, the familiar. This is my load to carry, as a military wife. Others have financial burdens, extended family issues, career choice issues. My husband has a steady income (for now), a steady career (for now) and I don't have the stress of trying to keep good boundaries with extended family (I wish they were closer!)
Having said this, at this point in my life I have to work at stepping out of this resolve to keep things the same, to stay in the old order of things. After living in four different countries, in nine homes during the span of thirteen years, I have few things that remain constant. Every time we move, we remind our kids that when we move and leave friends, their siblings will always be there for them. I know, however, that even in this, there is change. My kids change, go through different seasons. Marriages go through seasons.
The one constant in my life is the One to whom I direct much of my angst, my railings about having to confront so many changes and uncomfortable situations. For now, I'm seeming to be stuck-- emotionally. Not ready to quit mourning what I've lost- for I've just come out of a season in which I needed quite desperately to regain a sense of control, a sense of comfort and routine. The last two years of loss, mourning, constant separation from my hubbie and then the joy of having a fourth child with all of its inherent transitions and adjustments have left me needing quiet.
And perhaps this is just what I have, though I have yet to fully embrace it for the extravagent mercy that this season holds. Without a vehicle, in a new community of friends, cloistered somewhat by my reticence to venture out into Jordanian culture, I have some emotional distance from things.
I just want to lose myself for a while. In this anonymity, this lack of a specific role outside of my home, distanced by the cultural majority, like I'm hibernating. Resting. Preparing.
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