Winds of Change

We sat there in a brightly lit diner, waiting for our lunch to arrive when my son’s eyes turned watery. We’d just come from his new school, meeting his teacher, and touring his classroom in preparation for his first day of first grade. He’d been enthusiastic and wide-eyed as we walked the halls, but as he buckled into the backseat, his demeanor had changed. He became grumpy and angry.

By the time we’d sat down at our table his head was down. I watched him as he picked up a crayon and started filling in his coloring page menu. “I feel like I just want to tear this whole page apart and throw it away!” he spewed. Confused, I asked, “Justice, what’s going on with you? What’s wrong?” Tears filled his eyes as he slid off his chair and stepped over to me. I wrapped my arms around him as he started to sob. “It’s just too much change Mom! It’s too much for me!” My heart broke in two as I settled into understanding. My sweet boy had been carrying a lot on his shoulders. We’d asked so much of him the past month. He’d finally hit his limit.

Through broken sobs, he ranted, “Nothing here looks familiar and I don’t recognize anything! I wasn’t ready to leave Tucson, but now our moving truck has already left and it’s too late! We can’t go back!” I swallowed my tears as I patiently listened to his venting. I knew no explanation I gave him would suffice. He’d heard them all anyway. My children had been supportive and encouraging as we walked them through all the reasons we believed God was calling us here to this beachside town in Mississippi. They’d asked questions but they’d never really complained. They stayed positive as we packed up all of their belongings for weeks, moved them to a hotel, then put them on a plane, then moved them into a temporary rental house, and immediately introduced them to a brand new school within twenty-four hours of arriving. They had both handled it all with such patience and grace beyond their years. But now, for Justice, the enormous impact of so much change in such a short amount of time was bowling him over.

I calmly held my son until his tears subsided and I resisted the urge to offer up my usual positive perspective and helpful solutions to his struggle. Instead, I chose to validate every last one of his frustrations and give him full permission to grieve. Yes, it is too much change. No, nothing looks familiar here. Part of me wasn’t ready to leave Tucson either. And you’re right, we can’t go back. Change is not easy. Sometimes it feels downright unfair, especially when it’s thrust upon us and we don’t feel we have much say in the matter. No matter how much we’re told, “It just takes time,” it gets hard to imagine a day when everything won’t feel so different and scary, a day when you won’t be looking back over your shoulder to see what you left behind anymore. As I articulated all these thoughts to my exhausted little boy, I felt his body relax into mine. He didn’t need me to distract him with what we were excited about or things to look forward to. He needed me to assure him I understood, and that this wasn’t easy for me either.

Later that night over dinner my daughter was sharing how encouraged she felt after meeting a new classmate that had things in common with her. She felt confident about heading into her first day of school the next morning and I was so relieved for her. By the time she laid down in bed though, her confidence had waned and her mind drifted to all her friends back in Tucson. They’d be starting school the next day too, and they’d have each other to greet at recess and in the lunchroom. Providence realized she’d have no one. No familiar faces to seek out in the crowd, no friends to reunite with after a summer apart. The tears started to fall and they wouldn’t let up. My brave, quiet girl huddled into a ball in the corner of her bed and silently wept, trying so hard to control the onslaught of sadness on her own. It wasn’t until her little brother came out in the hall and told me she was crying that I even knew she’d been struggling. I hurried into her room and quietly lifted her into my arms, carrying her across the hall and into my bed. I wrapped her gangly nine-year-old legs around my waist and held her tight, stroking my fingers through her hair as I gently rocked her back and forth. “I just miss my friends,” she whispered over and over. “I miss my friends too,” I whispered back, and we sat in our sadness together. Finally, into the silence, I began to sing a tune I learned as a little girl in Girl Scouts. It was a tune our friend Debra had just taught Providence the day we loaded up our moving truck. “Make new friends and keep the old… One is silver and the other gold.”

For the last month, I’ve marveled at my children as they’ve ridden the waves of change. Their flexibility, patience, and adaptability are all things I desire to grow in myself. I have so much to learn from them. I say things like, “As long as we have each other and we’re together, we can get through anything.” They show me. They snuggle up and share their feelings every night in bed. They take each other from crying to laughing better than anyone else can. They ask each other about their day and offer support and a listening ear. They are each other’s built-in best friends and this past month I have watched them hang on to each other for dear life as the winds of change blow wildly around them. They are rising to the occasion because they are holding each other up, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness. I say things like, “It’s okay to have hard days. You don’t have to be positive all the time. Sometimes it’s okay to just admit that this is hard.” There have been very few instances in which I’ve let myself cry and sit in the hard. My kids show me. They have had moments in which the adventure part of this transition has worn off and the reality of new beginnings sets in. They let themselves sulk. They let the tears fall. They express disappointment and they don’t feel guilty about it. I’ve permitted them to do so, but I don’t know that I’ve permitted myself to do the same.

Just this morning my husband came home from dropping our daughter off at school, his eyes filled with tears. Our lazy perfectionist of a daughter had bailed on a soccer game during recess because her classmates picked team captains. Her old crowd of friends never did that; they just started the game and sorted out teams as they went. Instead of adapting, she forfeited. She confessed this to Zach on the way to school and then blurted out, “I just want to go back to Tucson.” His heart broke for her. Even he admitted he struggled during his first few days in the office, eating lunch on his own his second day and feeling the insecurity of being the new guy. Getting to know people takes effort, and after an emotionally exhausting month of changes, that effort can feel impossible. I’ve sat in tears today just wishing so much I could make this transition easier for my family, wishing I could walk beside them each day at their respective schools and jobs, giving them a familiar face and safe space to be themselves. I’m shouldering their struggle and that in and of itself has become my struggle. I can’t navigate any of this for them, but I can welcome them home with a warm embrace and whisper prayers over their tired heads each night. I can lead by example and put myself forward in forging new friendships and connecting with old ones, ensuring my tank gets filled so I have enough to pour into my precious family.

My dear bestie reminded me earlier this week: “Spend lots of time in the Word. Let the words and anything else that needs to come, come.” I needed that gentle nudge more than I ever realized. How easy it’s been to get caught up in the whirlwind of paperwork, phone calls, errands, and everything else that’s pulled my attention every which way, every direction but up. Funny how quickly the demands of life fade away when our eyes are pointed heavenward. It’s in His presence and His Word I’m anchored to a place of stillness. It’s there I’m reminded that when everything around me is unfamiliar and I don’t feel settled, Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8). In Him, there is no variation, or shadow (James 1:17). His Word stands forever (Isaiah 40:8). Such blessed assurance I would never find in the walls of a house, in the contents of a moving truck, or even in the sanctuary of my own family.

I won’t always have the right words to encourage my husband or my kids when they have a hard day or when the loneliness seeps in, and I don’t have to. I can’t hold their hand in every new and uncertain situation, and I don’t have to. I can’t carry their burdens alone, and I don’t have to. My God can do all that infinitely better than I ever could. May I lean back and trust His unchanging and perfect ways will anchor my family in even the most turbulent waters. When my own words and abilities fall short, may my family know beyond a shadow of a doubt that God can be trusted and He will never leave them. They are never alone with Him on their side. With God, we can feel safe and secure. With God, we are always home.