The Move

Moving is hard.

I sat with my mother today, holding her hand as we talked with the social worker about really hard things. She settled into the chair, into the topic. I closed my eyes and listened to the cadence of her voice, her inflection as she struggled to gain a foothold. I felt the magic of witnessing a juncture like this with someone I love.

Even for the most vigilant, our homes, our retreats, our bodies decay. Those who have carefully tended their spiritual gardens understand and prepare for the day when the move will come. There is enormous comfort in an unwavering belief in Jesus and God's kingdom but we know, too, that getting through the move can be rough.

There's nothing like being snapped to attention and forced into the present moment. Life has a way of charging up on stage and taking control, encapsulating us and forcing our hands together. We are transformed by it: we notice the intricacy of fluted daffodils in the garden on this beautiful spring day; we notice that seventy nine 4th of July barbecues have garnered some amazing time elapsed memories to replay as we pack for the move; we notice we breathe in the same air and imagine not doing that.

All of my life, my mother has walked alongside. Now it is my turn to lead, to walk alongside, and to reflect back the qualities she instilled in me so long ago.

I am grateful for that.

NMcC