We traveled to this place, the town where I grew up. Our little house there is going on the market…the house where my husband and I met, the house where we brought our newborn son home from the hospital, the house that has been in my family for thirty-something years, the little house on the street where I grew up. I know every inch of those sidewalks like they are an extension of my anatomy, know each tree that lines the street as though it were an old friend.
Saying goodbye is hard, harder than I imagined.
I know it’s time. I know that God has us here in the Big City, many miles and hours away from the home where my heart feels comfortable. We had a chance to move back there, years ago, and God said “No”. We felt so strongly…and still do…that we have work here in the City, this place is mission territory and I know we are called to be here. And most days, that’s exciting and it brings me joy. And some days, I just want to return to the cool, quiet, slow life that my hometown offers. Some days I just want to go to church on Sunday, and forget about it the rest of the week. There, I’ve admitted it.
But I know how long that would last…I’d go crazy after a few weeks. God’s pull is too strong, His plans are so much better than that. Even as I cried for leaving the town where I grew up, as I said goodbye to the little house that pops up so often in my dreams, I was already missing the faces of the people I love here, in the City. I was missing the music my husband and son make in worship bands here, the children who I teach on Sunday morning, the faces of neighbors and friends and even, just a tiny bit, the bustle of the city. The harvest is waiting, and this family’s fields lie miles from the sleepy college town where I grew up.
But oh, Abba…sometimes it hurts so much to lay it down for you.