bittersweet symphony

I've typed up three complete blog posts tonight. Three different ways to share my heart and how God is moving in our lives. Each one seemed inadequate and at the same time superfluous. So here goes -

We're moving to Texas because God led us to. And I don't say that lightly. I have to feel pretty certain about a decision to claim that it's God's will. From the very beginning of this process (which was only a few short weeks ago), we haven't been able to shake the feeling that this was from God. When Shawn, Jude, Cohen and I flew down to visit the church, the town, the people, and the culture, we knew. We knew down to our bones that God was asking us to take this next step.

Our hearts are at the same time sinking down to our toes with an indescribable heaviness and soaring straight out of our chests with a freeing lightness. There's peace and freedom that comes along with being smack in God's will. Accompanying is a kind of giddy laughter at the ridiculousness of what we're about to embark on, and the assurance that the Creator of the universe has been preparing us for this for awhile. There's a sense of adventure in packing up our boys and taking them to an unknown land. Our future looks vastly different than we had planned mere months ago, but we're giddy with possibilities and opportunities.

And while it's hard to understand, at the same time our hearts are quickening with excitement they're also being broken. Shattered, in fact. Our roots in Winston-Salem are deep. We bought our house with the expectation that our kids would graduate from a specific school system, and we love Pinedale literally like the bride of Christ. We love her unconditionally with eyes that see her as Christ sees her, and we so desperately want the best for her. Pinedale has been the only church Shawn and I have ever served at. And she will always be our first love.

Our families live a considerable distance away from us, so the friends we have in Winston-Salem are our family. We've spent Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters, Fourth of Julys, birthdays, and hospital stays with you. You've seen me go through postpartum depression and helped pull me out of it, and you've helped fill in the gaps when Shawn couldn't be around. You rushed over to lower the crib when Jude jumped out one afternoon and I was hysterical, you insisted on keeping the boys so Shawn and I could have date night, you sang in our wedding, you helped us pack up our tiny apartment and unpack in our house, you asked how I was doing after Cohen's birth in a tone that meant, "I'll do anything to make this easier for you." You've mourned when we've mourned and rejoiced when we rejoiced, and you've seen us through some of the biggest changes to our marriage, our character, and our lives. You've shaped who we are and who we will be, and our hearts already ache with missing you.

I want to continue making sure you know how much we treasure you, but truthfully, I can't see through the tears in my eyes. And that's not how I want this to go down. I don't want to be so busy missing our friendships that I don't enjoy them. I don't want to busy myself with mourning so that I completely miss the truth that these kinds of friendships are blessings. I will not take those blessings for granted or refuse to relish them because I'm grieving their absence.

We're moving to Texas, but because you are firmly planted in our hearts, we're taking you with us. And personally, I happen to think Texas will be a little better off for it.