(DISCLAIMER: I almost didn’t post this, because I know I talk about moving all the gosh-darn time here on this blog. But in the end, I’ve decided to post it because, well, it’s my blog, and I want to. My readership may dwindle down to 10 because of my babble, but that’s okay. This is my little corner of the blogosphere, and you, my friends, may just have to endure it for the next little bit. I love you all.)

I’m feeling quite sentimental about packing up these days, and I’m sure it’s to do with an even mix of having so much to do I want to cry, and hormones. There, I said it. I’m a mess. I don’t focus when I drive, and somehow I end up at Garden Ridge instead of Chick-Fil-A. I told Cheryl this morning that I’m so overwhelmed, it’s hard for me to be okay with the fact that it’s perfectly reasonable for our home to be cluttered right now. There’s boxes everywhere, and nothing is where it used to be. But in the midst of that, I still gotta do the dishes and laundry, and not forget to feed my family come dinnertime.

We’re moving overseas. In a few months, we won’t be living in the U.S. anymore. We’ll be approximately 13,000 miles away from all we know to be normal. The air will smell differently, when we open the windows we’ll hear different sounds. I’ll take my grocery list to the store when I first stock my kitchen, but who knows how much I’ll be able to find. Either they won’t have it, or I won’t be able to recognize the label. When we go on a walk, we will be stopped every 20 feet because of Chickpea’s blonde hair and blue eyes, and she’ll get her fair amount of cheek pinching from old ladies and total strangers. The mother hen in me will be on overdrive, making sure the crazy drivers who hop on the sidewalks to avoid traffic don’t steer within an inch of my baby. Kabob and I won’t be able to hold hands as we stroll through the neighborhood.

I’m sad. And excited. We often laugh at how manic we feel; one day we just want to drive by Goodwill, throw our earthly possessions their way, then hop on a plane to our new home. The next day I’m so sad I want to curl into the fetal position, call up a realtor, and search for some reasonable excuse to dig some roots.

There is such freedom – SUCH freedom – in dying to self. When I die to myself, that means I die to not only my selfish dreams and desires, but also my good, godly ones. I take it all, every last bit, and put it up on the altar, trusting my good Father to do with it as He pleases. It doesn’t matter how I feel at the time, or whether I’m in the mood to relinquish all. I just give it all to Him because He asks me to, if I want to follow Him.

I’ve wanted to play a small part in the world since I was 15, when I went on my first trip to Russia. At 18, I decided to more seriously research living overseas. At 21, I knew for certain that I was to serve overseas in a cross-cultural capacity, however the Lord saw fit. I knew it in my bones, there was unspeakable peace about that calling, and that was that. I’ve never looked back. And daily He still confirms this to me.

But it’s so different juggling that and being a mama. Kabob and I conveniently met on the field, so we didn’t deal with any I’m-called-but-are-you? issues. We felt exactly the same about how God made us, what part we were to play in His Kingdom. But Chickpea came along, and man, she weighs a ton when it comes to making decisions. I mean, the poor kid isn’t even two, and we’re deciding for her that she will be a “third-culture-kid,” an “MK,” and she’ll get all the luggage that the title entails. Granted, she’ll get, in my opinion, to experience some amazing things that I could only dream about as a kid. The good far outweighs the bad, if we do this thing right. But still… She makes it a lot harder to just say “whatever You want” to the Lord.

“I myself no longer live, but Christ lives in me. So I live my life in this earthly body by trusting in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” Galatians 2:20

God, as your daughter, I freely give myself to You, to do whatever You have for me in the next few weeks, months, years. I trust You wholly and completely, that You love me far more than I love myself, and will protect me from the enemy because You are victorious. You are faithful.

And God, I trust You with my daughter, because You love her far more than I ever could. And I give You my heartache of taking her to a new culture and new land, because You know far more than I could ever know what it means to sacrifice Your child. You did it for me, you did it for her. And you are good. You love us both.

So I’ll keep packing up the books and the dishes and the toys, because I know in my bones He is leading us to a land that “He will show us” (Genesis 12:1). I’ll give him my good, godly intentions of being a light in a dark world, because that’s not mine in the first place – He put it in me when He formed me. But I’ll also give Him my anxieties, fears, and the unknown of how on earth to parent a cross-cultural kid and be the wife of this kind of family, because He, too, sees that as a fragrant offering. He wants all of me, and He will never leave me. He will be the Lord of our house over there, just as He is here. And He is good. All the time.

posted: 06 September 7
under: