I'm back from two weeks of camping. It was mostly cold and wet and sleeping in a damp sleeping bag on nights when you could see your breath but not the stars. But it was also full of good. India played her heart out with her cousins, I got in some good time with my brother and sister and brother-in-law, and we spent our nights huddled, almost standing in the fire with chocolate, marshmallows and mugs of wine.
And now that we're home, when it's not 2:30am, it's moving time.
People keep asking me how I feel about The Big Move. I think the best answer is: practical. I feel practical.
I know I will be lonely sometimes. I know I will feel overwhelmed and scared sometimes. I know I will wonder what the hell I've done. But what do you do? What else is a girl going to do? How could I not go?
And, also, I'm so, so, so excited. I picked up a collection of essays about writing before I left for camping, and I almost spilt my heart right out onto the sandy beach reading them. I sweat. They made me sweat happiness. Getting to talk and think and eat and breathe writing for three years (three years!) feels like the most incredible gift ever. I guess that helps with the fear.
But also, there is this strange undercurrent of calm. I'm loved. Wrapped up in prayer and kindness and my heart feels safe because I'm going with God. Not because I was supposed to go to Iowa, or that it was God-ordained, or meant to be, or any other hullabaloo - which I am not discounting but also not looking for comfort in - but because I've been places, I've travelled this hard terrain before, and I know it in my bones that come here or there, come Iowa or elsewhere, come flying high, or crashing and burning I go with God. I go with God.
Though it would be nice to not crash and burn. I'd rather not do that.
So, here I go. Hold me up. Love me good. Pray me into God. I'm banking on it. What else is a girl going to do?
