This is just going to be a regular-old life update post. Nothing fancy. Nothing edited.
Life is full of transition. I say that from my bed, surrounded by messy piles of books and clothes and my cat curled up by my feet. On Friday my doctor told me to get a little more comfortable with hanging out here—modified bed rest as it were—and it’s hard to process the mixed emotions. The past week I have been feeling the symptoms of HELLP creeping back in—the fatigue, the swelling—and my blood pressure is up, borderline worrisome. But it could all be nothing, it could all go away, or it could be something, it could progress slowly or quickly, nothing to do but wait and try and be calm, take it day by day. I do not like taking it day to day. I would like to have a plan. I am 32 weeks along.
I am so lucky. I did just quit my job, so I have that added space now. I can read books, listen to podcasts, play with my daughter, I have a very supportive husband. I can still do a lot, I just have to take it a bit easier. But then—my mind starts to get away from me. I need to get the house ready. I need to get baby stuff. I need to pack my hospital bag. There is a very good chance we will have a preemie again, and perhaps I need to spend some time thinking about this. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to remember getting sick, the breastfeeding struggles, the hospital time. Little things like remembering why my own daughter never co-slept with us—I couldn’t seem to remember why she slept in her own crib from day one back at home. Then last night I realized: it was because she spent her first two weeks in the make-shift NICU, and got very used to being put down on a flat surface and going to sleep on her own. I don't want my next baby to be so used to that, to not want to be rocked to sleep.
And there are other transitions, too. This summer we will be leaving our organization, InnerCHANGE, and moving back to Portland. It’s a natural ending place, the end of our 3-year commitment. I have known since December, and I have great peace about it. But why oh why does this place have to be so beautiful, so sparkling, a place both of crushed and revitalized dreams? We are heading off to keep doing what we have been doing all along—a bit wiser for the wear, thankful for all we have been gifted here. I have cried, a lot. I dream of retiring in the towers where I teach. But for now, we are called back to our families and communities and churches where our roots are. We want to be planted, and we need to be honest about where that can actually happen.
We know the neighborhood where we are moving (technically a suburb of Portland) and it’s the place where all the fun stuff (as we like to call it) goes down. It’s the Portland you don’t see on Portlandia, is another way to put it. Portland, as close to a home as I will ever get, is one of the silliest, saddest, least-diverse cities in America. The battles of gentrification happening are a microcosm of where poverty in America is headed—pushed outside of the inner-city, people are forced to move farther and farther into the suburbs, where lack of infrastructure (busses, etc) and social services makes it even harder to thrive. I love Portland, but I long to see her change, to really see what’s happening in the underbelly, in the other America.
We don’t know exactly where we will live, however, but are pretty sure it will be apartments. We don’t know what jobs we will work at but we know that we are done raising support. We are so, so happy that we have no clue as to what exactly we will be doing, what our ministry will be, how will we explain it to others. We are so glad that we know nothing, that we are finally learning the skill set of moving in and being quiet, of letting a place teach us, of moving into a neighborhood for our needs and in pursuit of our own vocations and joys. We are excited to continue to learn to see where God is already at work, to see the face of Christ in everyone we meet.
But still: that is a whole dang lot of transition. I sit on my bed and try to contemplate it all but I can’t. I think about the past almost-3-years, the lessons we have learned about community and simplicity and service and celebration. I think about my present, how currently it could change day-to-day. I think about the future, a gray blur of hope and anxiety with a strong shot of peace. So many lovelies we are leaving. So many we are moving towards. It just isn’t fair, the trauma involved with loving people, of being loved by them. But still we do it.
We move into neighborhoods far from where we grew up, we have babies even when there is risk, we clutch our disappointments and our joys and we sally forth not into the life or the community or the birth experience we always wanted but the one we actually have. And we trust, we trust, we trust, that it is all being made new.
For those along for the journey with us, we are so thankful.