Almost eight years ago, we found ourselves finally, reluctantly going. For three years we moved each year: first to the outskirts of the city we loved, then 700 miles southwest to Nashville, and then another 700 miles to the coast of Virginia, 250 miles south of where we started. Leaving was hard. Starting over stole my energy, drained my confidence, tested my courage and sapped my strength. In Tennessee, for the first time, our little family was all we had.
When we moved to Tennessee, thinking it would be for two years, I dove into trying to meet people. And though I often felt lonely and out of place, I now know that I hit the jackpot. There I found a group of women who threw their doors open wide. They managed to hold each other tightly while always widening their circle.
When we moved to Tennessee, thinking it would be for two years, I dove into trying to meet people. And though I often felt lonely and out of place, I now know that I hit the jackpot. There I found a group of women who threw their doors open wide. They managed to hold each other tightly while always widening their circle.
After a whirlwind year of growth, we arrived in Virginia, halfway through my pregnancy with our third baby, trying desperately to make an adventure for our two little girls of the series of temporary homes until we found this one. Despite joining a large and established MOPS group of nice women, I didn’t have the energy to pour myself into cultivating friendships. Our son arrived shortly after we moved into our rambling fixer-upper, and I struggled to homeschool our daughter while managing the other two little ones after Daniel headed back to work a mere five days after I gave birth. I didn’t sleep for almost fully a year, and though we had started attending a church regularly by then, it felt like our life didn't make it easy for us to connect the way we longed to.
What I’m trying to say is this: I know what it’s like to be the one who leaves. I know how hard it is to start over—again—the energy it takes to muster another awkward meeting, wondering if maybe this encounter will be one that finally turns into a lasting friendship. I know the anxiety and work of ensuring the kids thrive in transition. I know that, unfair though it may be, it seems like the new girl is usually the one who does the inviting, the one on whom the burden to find a place falls. When you move where everyone has already found their people, there isn’t always room for one more, even when the people are nice. And that stings.
When we moved here, the only thing I liked about it was that it meant no more moving for a while and less travel for Daniel, despite very long hours. I had no idea whether we would learn to love anything else. I would never call any place my “forever home;” I just can’t see that far around the bend. But we really like living here and don’t have any plans to leave. Here’s the problem with that: Everyone else seems to. Because of the military, and a host of other reasons, this is a transient place. To live here is to love and to lose. It happens in cycles; every two years or so I have to say a big goodbye, not to mention the smaller ones sprinkled throughout every year.
Two years ago we sent off a family that felt like family to ours, and I said goodbye to the best friend I’ve had the joy of making since I became an adult. It’s a strange sensation to be left like that. Because when you’re the one moving on, in order to survive, you have to summon the energy to move forward, to make friends, to establish patterns. But when you’re left behind, you don’t. You already have the rhythms and necessities of life, so you carry on, navigating around a gaping hole. I'm not at all suggesting that being left is harder, only that it's an entirely other thing I wasn't prepared for.
What I’m trying to say is this: I know what it’s like to be the one who leaves. I know how hard it is to start over—again—the energy it takes to muster another awkward meeting, wondering if maybe this encounter will be one that finally turns into a lasting friendship. I know the anxiety and work of ensuring the kids thrive in transition. I know that, unfair though it may be, it seems like the new girl is usually the one who does the inviting, the one on whom the burden to find a place falls. When you move where everyone has already found their people, there isn’t always room for one more, even when the people are nice. And that stings.
When we moved here, the only thing I liked about it was that it meant no more moving for a while and less travel for Daniel, despite very long hours. I had no idea whether we would learn to love anything else. I would never call any place my “forever home;” I just can’t see that far around the bend. But we really like living here and don’t have any plans to leave. Here’s the problem with that: Everyone else seems to. Because of the military, and a host of other reasons, this is a transient place. To live here is to love and to lose. It happens in cycles; every two years or so I have to say a big goodbye, not to mention the smaller ones sprinkled throughout every year.
Two years ago we sent off a family that felt like family to ours, and I said goodbye to the best friend I’ve had the joy of making since I became an adult. It’s a strange sensation to be left like that. Because when you’re the one moving on, in order to survive, you have to summon the energy to move forward, to make friends, to establish patterns. But when you’re left behind, you don’t. You already have the rhythms and necessities of life, so you carry on, navigating around a gaping hole. I'm not at all suggesting that being left is harder, only that it's an entirely other thing I wasn't prepared for.
Maybe it should get easier the more often it happens, but that’s not been the case for us. We had the enormous good fortune of getting to live across the street from my brother and his family for the last year. We knew it was temporary, and though I knew it would be sweet, I could not have anticipated how precious it would be to watch cousins become best friends; I could not have predicted the way a sister-in-law I’ve known for nearly ten years would become so close that I can’t seem to find a word to do her justice. It’s not an exaggeration to say that I’m heartbroken in their absence. It was magic that could never be repeated, and I have cried often over the loss of it, but also over the ridiculousness of the opportunity in the first place.
In the wake of this loss, we also prepare to watch our next-door neighbors of whom we’ve grown very fond and a number of other friends start new chapters. We are excited that our friends get to realize dreams that have been years in the making, but still exhausted at the thought of starting over; as with so many things in life, we live in the tension of both, not or. We are weary, bruised, and a bit unsure what the point is of building this community in what feels like such shifting sand. If we are the only constant, really, why do we open our door and our hearts, again and again?
In the wake of this loss, we also prepare to watch our next-door neighbors of whom we’ve grown very fond and a number of other friends start new chapters. We are excited that our friends get to realize dreams that have been years in the making, but still exhausted at the thought of starting over; as with so many things in life, we live in the tension of both, not or. We are weary, bruised, and a bit unsure what the point is of building this community in what feels like such shifting sand. If we are the only constant, really, why do we open our door and our hearts, again and again?
I feel unmoored every time we are left; I feel it deeply now. But isn’t all love—and life, for that matter—tenuous at best? I am not guaranteed my health, my husband or my children even through the end of this day, let alone for a lifetime. The weight of that realization can crush me if I let it, can cause me to preserve the imperfect current condition of my heart by whatever means necessary. Maybe I won’t love again, but definitely I won’t lose either. The temptation is real, and it’s happened enough times now that I can recognize the pattern in my coping. I tuck into myself and the sadness each time. I grieve and hide, sometimes a little longer than is helpful. I decide that the amazing friends I have who are now scattered all over the country, the incredible women who would fly through the night if ever I called are enough; maybe I don’t need proximity; certainly I can’t weather this pain again.
And yet I know that’s not true. The trick, I think, is to stay soft and open when logic says it would be unwise to do so. If my focus is inward, if my goal is to guard my heart from further pain, then the vulnerability of venturing out into new friendships—particularly with people who are bound to leave me—is reckless and foolish. But if my focus is outward, if my goal is to love—as often and as many and as wholeheartedly as possible— then I have no choice but to walk to my door, with a limp if necessary, and throw it open again. Absolutely I have been loved like that, and I will always be grateful for it.
And yet I know that’s not true. The trick, I think, is to stay soft and open when logic says it would be unwise to do so. If my focus is inward, if my goal is to guard my heart from further pain, then the vulnerability of venturing out into new friendships—particularly with people who are bound to leave me—is reckless and foolish. But if my focus is outward, if my goal is to love—as often and as many and as wholeheartedly as possible— then I have no choice but to walk to my door, with a limp if necessary, and throw it open again. Absolutely I have been loved like that, and I will always be grateful for it.
A couple of weeks ago, the day after I cried in the airport drop-off line, I hosted some friends in my kitchen for a planning meeting. Halfheartedly, I pulled together an agenda, made a pot of soup and lit some candles. And something happened around that table, as it so often does. As we filled our bowls, I exhaled a little. My sadness persists; my fatigue is real, but the act of opening is slowly healing my heart, again.
Five years ago, Daniel and I bought our house with a purpose; we knew we were called to open it often. But we couldn’t have known then what staying put would require of us, the courage it would take to open our hearts over and over, knowing we would be left. After an extended season of living in shallow soil, we couldn’t wait for our family to grow roots. But we couldn’t have known that calling would come with a catch: that we would be an oak tree surrounded by gorgeous annuals that bloom brilliantly for a season and are then gone.
We never really get over the beauty of the friendships we’ve made with people just passing through. But we hold each other tightly, reluctantly taking a step back to widen our circle. We remember what it was like when we were weary travelers, how grateful we were to be welcomed in. So, we grieve our losses, then take a deep breath and extend an invitation again. Of course we have room for one more, we say. Come in and sit by us, if only for a while.
Five years ago, Daniel and I bought our house with a purpose; we knew we were called to open it often. But we couldn’t have known then what staying put would require of us, the courage it would take to open our hearts over and over, knowing we would be left. After an extended season of living in shallow soil, we couldn’t wait for our family to grow roots. But we couldn’t have known that calling would come with a catch: that we would be an oak tree surrounded by gorgeous annuals that bloom brilliantly for a season and are then gone.
We never really get over the beauty of the friendships we’ve made with people just passing through. But we hold each other tightly, reluctantly taking a step back to widen our circle. We remember what it was like when we were weary travelers, how grateful we were to be welcomed in. So, we grieve our losses, then take a deep breath and extend an invitation again. Of course we have room for one more, we say. Come in and sit by us, if only for a while.
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