Our Journey

In the years since we have married, it occurs to me that some friendships begin because men have common interests and senses of humor. Some begin because women organize carpools and volunteer together. Some begin because our children’s friendship throw us together. Sometimes these initial friendships lead to entire families spending time together.

If you’re lucky the adults will discover over shared meals, laughter and conversation that they like each other as much as the kids do. And if those initial gatherings go well then the adults may make the next step… friendship worthy of babysitters and coveted adult time. And if you’re extremely fortunate, the spouses like each other as much as those who initiated the friendship.

And if God smiles on you, you wake up one morning to realize that all the time you’ve spent together has woven your families together so closely that now you’re more of a family than friends. Even though you live hours from your own parents, siblings, nieces and nephews you realize that just around the corner are people who will drop anything to help you unpack, call to check in on you at just the right time, and feel comfortable enough to plop down on the couch and enjoy a spontaneous evening together. Their kids are as beautiful and precious as your kids. And they love your kids as if they were their own.

We have those friends. While some question our sanity and judgment for selling our house and leaving jobs; as I see it, the greater sacrifice and foolishness is leaving behind such friends that few are fortunate to find.

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The rain to the wind said, “You push and I’ll pelt.” They so smote the garden bed that the flowers actually knelt. And lay lodged – though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.”

Robert Frost
from Praying Our Goodbyes by Joyce Rupp

I stumbled upon this book by Joyce Rupp this week and it seemed all too appropriate for this particular time in life. On Tuesday as we started to pack boxes I started crying and could not stop. Each time a friend called to check in or to wish me a happy birthday, tears would begin again. I walked into the gas station to buy a pop and I think my tear stained, puffy-eyed, forlorn face actually scared the nice man behind the counter. It was a long day. I felt like the flowers pushed and pelted, lodged – though not dead.

Our friends have been amazing – bringing dinners, offering to host playdates for our kids, taking us out for a drink. Our family has called and prayed for us. Each person has carefully tended us as the bent and drooping flowers that we were this week.

And yesterday we closed on the house. We got all our stuff to where it was supposed to go. We went to La Terazza for dinner. And when we came home there were three moms and six kids working on the church’s community garden in our backyard. Our kids joined the fun – they ran and laughed and played.

This morning I grabbed my tea and walked out the back door to find Jeff and the kids who were already riding bikes in the church parking lot before school. As I felt the sun, I automatically turned my face toward the light and warmth. I am a flower after the storm – a little worse for the wear, but basking in the sun and ready, again, to stretch and grow.

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Today Jeff and I are packing up the house – everything except the kids’ rooms. We’re making Goodwill piles and give-to-other-people piles, and throw away piles. And an even smaller pile is the take-this-to-Malawi pile.

Tonight we will go from room to room with the kids sharing happy memories, sad memories and saying any apologies we need to say. We will give thanks and pray for the new family who moves in this week. So that in the morning we can say good-bye to this house that has held our family the past six years.

It’s the only house Claire Marin remembers. It’s the house that we brought Carter home to. For all my complaints about suburbia, despite the annoyance of all the Homeowner’s Association rules, and even in light of our deep desire to downsize, this is still our home – a sanctuary from the craziness of the world, the place where we love each other well and where we have shared much hospitality with friends and family.

When we moved in we had so little furniture that our words echoed through the house. We had only one quiet daughter. Slowly we filled the space with new furniture and new furnishings – Grandpa Oliver’s chair, lots of furniture from Mom and Dad’s attic, and a few new things. We added a child – and a disproportionate amount of noise for one small boy. The walls that once echoed, have now heard our anger, our laughter, our cries, and our squeals of delight. As we move the furniture out, it’s as if the “Oliver-ness” of the house seeps out of the walls and wafts gently out the open doors. It’s natural preparation for the new family that will make their home here.

Carter can hide behind the clothes in any closet. The kids can snuggle with us on the couch wherever it is set up next. Claire Marin can read Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events anywhere. Jeff and I will continue to be lovers wherever we are. But it’s still sad to think that all that we have done and been here, will soon be memories we cannot quite reproduce.

Well, there are more boxes to pack. More laundry to do. And more memories to release.

Prayer request: For a smooth transition to the guest house at Glendale UMC.

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