When A Dream Becomes A Nightmare

We are sitting in the Boston airport and people are milling about. We’re here early, with four hours before our flight.

No, that’s not right. We’re sitting in a field.

Nope. That’s not right either. I have no idea where we are. I don’t remember a thing about the setting. We’re not in our house. We aren’t at the airport. Not even a hotel. We’re in some other-worldly place. A place I’ve never seen before. A place I can’t describe.

My husband and I are standing across from each other. “I don’t want this!” I cry. “This is NOT what I want to do!” My arms are crossed and hot streams of tears are flowing down my face like jets in a jacuzzi. I don’t know where my kids are. My guess is they are off somewhere playing with friends—or maybe crying angry tears of their own. Heck, they could be sitting on the sidelines, watching as I scream at David in between gasps for air.

“I’m not okay this time around,” I scream erratically. “We did this once. We left everything behind to come here. And I know you think moving back to Georgia is moving home. But it’s not going to be like that!” I can see his face start to crumble, but I can’t gain control of myself. I have no desire to protect his emotions. Right now I simply have to get it all off my chest. In rapid fire, I throw out one sentence after another.

“We’ve changed so much in the last eight years that moving back to Georgia will be like moving to a foreign land. We can never go home again. It will never be home again! We’ll never own that house on Cherokee Place. Grant Park will never again be our neighborhood. And even if we did buy that house and move back to that neighborhood, so many of the people we loved so much when we were there are gone. They’ve all moved on as well.”

I’m so caught up in my own emotions that I don’t even notice how he responds. I start to crumble into a ball on the floor and sob uncontrollably and he begins to talk in a much calmer voice than mine. “But I've already rented us a house. We already have a place to go. We can make it home!”

I look up at him and he takes it as a cue to keep going. “Your mom will be there. And your sisters will be there. And your aunts will be there. Our kids can have family again! There will always be cousins to share birthdays with. There will always be people to come watch dance events! We know churches and pastors in the neighborhood. Our kids can grow up going to Affirm! We’ll never have to do Thanksgiving or Christmas on our own.

“This won’t be like moving to Massachusetts. We already have a community there. We just have to tell them we're coming home and they're going to wrap their arms around us and welcome us home.”

But I don’t believe him. I don’t believe a word of it. He thinks this is going to be like the prodigal son. But I’m not so sure.

I'm thinking about having to start over with children that are nine and almost twelve. They are in this tweeny age, where everything feels so important and so dramatic. I'm dreading the animosity that's going to come from this move. Not only in my own heart, but in the hearts of my children. I feel this deep, physical pain in my heart from what I know is about to happen.

I gather myself and step away to call my friend Jon, who lives in the neighborhood where David has rented a house. And I beg him, “Please please tell me that you're going to be home tomorrow. We’ll be in town sometime mid-afternoon. That's when we'll be moving into our house. And it would be really great for me if you were there.” Even though everything inside of me thinks moving back is the wrong decision, something just tells me that if he is going to be there, then I could do this. I could be okay.

But his response to me is so jarring. Not at all what I expect.

“I’m so sorry, but I have to work in the city every day, and am hardly at home. I don't know when I'll be able to see you. I promise I will, but it may be a few days.”

I toss and turn, my sleep becoming restless. Jon’s rejection wakes me up with a start. I feel so raw. I shake my head, a physical act to remind myself it isn’t real—it was only a dream—and then I think to myself: what once was a dream has now become a nightmare.

It was October eight years ago that we visited Boston for the very first time. On this exact day, October 20, 2015, we put our beloved bungalow on Cherokee Place on the pre-market. Six weeks later, it belonged to someone else, and I cried about it every single day.

Six months after we moved to Massachusetts, I pleaded with God in the middle of the night. Please, Lord. Please. Make a way for us to move back home. David started looking for jobs in the Atlanta area. What we felt certain would be easy proved to be impossible. We did move again, but not back to Georgia. Instead we moved to the beach.

It would be lying to say we’ve been happy in Massachusetts ever since. The last eight years have been filled with wandering. And wondering. Perhaps they are one and the same.

We have frequent talks about moving back. What neighborhood we might live in, what church we would go to, and how we could reconnect with our community there. We still catch ourselves looking at houses full of Southern charm with deep longing and painful tugs of the heart. Just a few months ago, I called our Atlanta realtor to inquire about a condo that had just come on the market. “Maybe we can split our time,” I said.

Dreams are weird. Sometimes they pop out of nowhere; haunting us for days. I wish I knew what prompted this one. Was it merely coincidence that the dream occurred on the very same day we first visited Boston eight years ago? Has my brain become rewired to think about home when the leaves start to fall?

Or was it a subtle message from God? A nudge to embrace what I have, to be grateful for the moments, to wake up and notice the community we’ve created for ourselves. Maybe even a nudge to admit that New England finally feels like home.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Haunted".

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Seven Steps to Cure Loneliness

1. Say hi to a stranger on the church pew. When you lose the phone number she gives you, spend hours searching for her on social media. Bravely send her a message and set up a lunch date.
   

2. Send a text to your college roommate, whom you haven’t talked to in years. Tell her you are thinking of her. That you miss her and wonder if there’s a way to reignite the spark between you.
   

3. When you wake one morning jolted from a dream about a friend you haven’t talked to in years, send her a note. “I had a dream last night and you were in it. I miss you. I hope things are well.”
   

4. Send a direct message on Instagram to a woman you went to college with, but barely know. “I’d love to be friends in real life,” you can say. “Would it be okay if we shared phone numbers?” 
   

5. When you receive a text from a high school friend apologizing for something that happened twelve years ago, respond graciously. Say thank you. Forgiveness and grace are beautiful things. Life is too short to not accept them.
   

6. Go on hikes. You never know when you might run into that person who has been following you on social media. When you do, you’ll hug each other like you’ve known each other forever, and you’ll become fast friends.
   

7. Don’t be afraid of disappointment. Sometimes people won’t respond and your heart will be broken. Other times you’ll end up with the best friends you could ever imagine. You never know the outcome when you take the first step, but if you never take the step, you’ll increase your chances of being lonely forever.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "With a Little Help".

P.S. Exhale is open for enrollment until September 30. Are you a mama striving for creativity? If so, this may be just the place for you to find your spark!

will the grapefruit grow?

“We have presents for you!” my friend Kelli squeals as we wrap our arms around each other in a warm hug. It’s Christmas Eve morning and our families haven’t seen each other in four months. We are used to weekly dinners and shared holidays—neither of us have extended family in New England. Covid cases are on the rise again, but an outdoor hike seems relatively risk-free, so we put on our long underwear, snow pants, and boots and meet for a walk in the woods. 

She carefully hands me a vintage glass creamer jar full of dirt. “It’s a grapefruit plant!” she gushes. “It grows really slow.” Promising me there is a seed inside, she assures me if I keep it watered, it will grow. I have no idea if grapefruits can actually grow in New England. We don’t exactly have tropical weather. 

You can find the rest of the essay over at Coffee + Crumbs.

When Home is Where You Are

I park on the street by the newest coffee shop in town and step out of my car, reminiscing about the house we tried to buy a few years ago just down the street. I notice the owner of the shop on the sidewalk talking to another customer. I hear him say he doesn’t want to compete with the Amazons of the world; he wants to be celebrated for what he is. He stops his conversation to say hello and offers me an elbow bump, telling me I’m looking especially fabulous today. That green of your shirt is so beautiful he says, and I say thanks, today just felt like a green day. I think to myself, “He is my people” and I open the door, catching a whiff of cardamom as I walk in.

The minute I enter, I’m reminded of my favorite coffee shop back in my beloved Grant Park. I would walk there a couple of times a week pushing the girls in our bright blue double Bumbleride stroller, treating myself to a coffee before taking them to the zoo to play for a few hours. I miss that neighborhood every single day now that we live in Massachusetts, but this new coffee shop reminds me that places like this exist everywhere. I just have to be on the lookout.

I order a cardamom bun and a latte, and add a loaf of focaccia at the last minute, thinking it will be a good surprise for lunch after I’ve picked the girls up from their pottery class.

My hands full with the goodies I’ve purchased, I head back outside and see the owner walking back towards the shop. He stops me to say hi again and asks how I’m doing on this beautiful day. The way he asks the question feels genuine, like if I wanted to tell him about really crappy things in my life, he would sit with me and listen for however long it took. I don’t, because in this moment, all is mostly right in my world. Just the fact that this stranger is genuinely interested in my answer makes me feel a little more at home. He asks what my plans are for the day and I tell him I’m not quite sure; my kids are in a pottery class, and I’m not usually alone. “Oh how fun!” he exclaims, “So you have some chill time. Go! Enjoy your chill.”

I’m smiling from ear to ear as I unlock the doors to my grey minivan and climb inside. It’s not often that I get time by myself, and this morning’s encounter feels like a gift. I drive down the street and see the ocean in front of me.  The sky is bright blue dotted with cottony white clouds. This view will never get old, I think to myself, and I continue my drive home.

I walk in the door and put the cardamom bun in the microwave before grabbing a notebook and a pen. “I’m going to the ocean!” I call out to my husband who is working downstairs. I share a bite of cardamom bun with him before I walk out the door and climb back in my grey minivan. As I back down the driveway, I open the sunroof and let the brisk air fill my lungs.

It takes six minutes to drive back to the ocean. I lived without the ocean for so long, but I can’t imagine a life without it now. I sit on the sand and watch the waves lap gently along the shore. I can feel the cool wind upon my neck and my troubles disappear into the water like tiny grains of sand. In these rare moments of solitude on the beach, I find myself praying prayers of gratitude that God always shows up in this place. 

I woke at 2:30 this morning, tossing and turning like a boat on rough ocean waves. The wind roared outside my bedroom window and as I lay there unsettled, my thoughts went to my Mom. It was November when I last saw her and my heart aches at the thought. It’s always in the middle of the night that I wake up thinking of my family. Three in the morning seems like the best time to wonder if we should do what it takes to move back home to be closer to my family. 

It’s always when I’m lying in complete darkness in the early morning hours, unable to fall back asleep, that I cry out to God wanting him to make a way for me to go home. It hasn’t happened in a while, but the last year has made me miss my family more than ever. It’s been a year of solitude, a year of sacrifice, a year of feeling alone. It’s been a year that could have been filled with so much more happiness if we had just been within driving distance of these dear people of mine. 

But just now, God has answered my prayers in a most unexpected way. An encounter with a new coffee shop owner who genuinely cares about his customers. The ability to drop my children off at a pottery class and catch a few moments of solitude on the beach. In the kind eyes of the coffee shop owner and the gentle lapping of the waves, God whispers to me, “Crystal, you are already home.” 

She Forgot to Tell the Story (plus a bonus recipe for pasta filled with greens)

She brought her ravioli maker to Show and Tell. But she failed to tell the story. 

She talked about when they moved to Massachusetts and joined a CSA, wanting to eat locally and seasonally. She told them she bought a huge chest freezer and now spends her summer and fall preserving food, stocking up, preparing for winter. She told them if they had any questions about canning or freezing or how to eat seasonally, she was their gal. But she forgot to tell the deeper story behind the ravioli maker.

She forgot to tell them she spent that afternoon making ravioli from what she found in her freezer the day before. She found kohlrabi greens and some leftover roasted butternut squash. Not knowing what to do with the kohlrabi greens she blanched early in the summer (who even eats kohlrabi greens anyway?) she left them on the counter to drain for hours before squeezing them until they were completely dry. “I know!” she thought, “I’ll make pasta!” She threw the greens in the food processor with some flour, salt, and eggs and after a minute or two they magically became dough.

She formed the dough into a ball, wrapped it tightly in a plastic wrap blanket, and left it to rest on the counter as she cleaned the food processor for its next task. As she grabbed a towel and wiped the water off the clean food processor, she patted herself on the back for her creativity in the kitchen. Little did she know when her family bought her a pasta roller for Mother’s Day last year that homemade pasta would become her new fallback meal. She never dreamed she’d be here, turning greens into pasta with every chance she could find.

She turned to the counter and stared at the squash, thinking back to when she first roasted it on a sheet pan to go with a Roast Chicken sometime last fall. Knowing it wouldn’t get eaten as leftovers, she froze it for later, and forgot about it until now. She can’t bear to throw away food, not when she knows the work that goes into its growth. In a fit of inspiration, she dumped the squash in the food processor and pureed it until smooth. “This will make delicious ravioli,” she thinks, “but for the kids, I’ll have to make cheese.”

This is why she brought the ravioli maker to show and tell in the first place. She wanted to tell the story of how learning to cook seasonally helped her be creative. It helped her find a purpose. Helped her put down roots. 

She wanted to tell them about the time her family first visited Boston so many years ago and found themselves at a Farmer’s Market where they could buy raspberries and butternut squash and celery too. How in that moment she turned to her husband and said, “Okay, we can move here, as long as I can buy all of our food from a farm.” They had been part of a CSA in Atlanta, but the variety was nothing compared to what she saw there. She had been exploring bigger farms in the Atlanta area, and this move felt like an opportunity to find one of the things they had been searching for. 

She wanted to tell the story of how that farm they found their first year in MA was the first place that felt like home. That farm-fresh food is a large part of why they stayed in Massachusetts three years ago when all she really wanted to do was move back to Georgia.  She wanted to tell the story of how preserving food connects her to family who live so far away; how they too spend their summers stocking up whatever food they can, because it’s what her Grandma used to do.

She forgot to tell the story of how she found herself in that farmstand, her garden, and her kitchen that year. She learned how to be creative with the food they were given. She learned to read recipes—and to alter them—and she learned that everything tastes better when you get it from the farm. She learned that her kids will eat anything if she tells them Farmer Jamie grew it. But most of all, she learned that cooking can be therapeutic, if we give ourselves the space to try it. 

She brought the ravioli maker to show and tell because so much of who she is—of who she has always been—revolves around taking what she’s given and turning it into something beautiful. But she forgot to tell the story, so she took her failure and turned it into writing. And she realized that maybe it wasn’t such a failure after all.

Pasta Dough filled with Greens

*Adapted from Smitten Kitchen to use any and all greens found in my freezer.

Ingredients:

1 bunch blanched greens of any kind (to blanch greens, you throw them in a pot of boiling water for 2-3 minutes. Put them directly in a bowl of ice water for 2-3 minutes until cool. Use or freeze.)
1 ½ cups semolina flour
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon sea salt or kosher salt
3 large eggs
3 large egg yolks
Additional flour as needed for rolling out the dough

Directions:

Drain your greens and squeeze as much water out as you can. It helps to use paper towels to get your greens as dry as possible.

Dump greens, flours, and salt in the food processor and pulse until the greens are chopped and mixed into the flour well. Add eggs and egg yolks and pulse until the dough starts to come together. Pour the dough onto the counter and knead into a ball. Let sit for 5 minutes and knead again for about 5 minutes. Cover with plastic wrap and let sit on the counter for at least an hour. You can also stick it in the fridge overnight, just make sure to let it come to room temperature before you try to roll it out.

Divide the dough into six pieces. Roll each piece as thin as you possibly can, or run it through a pasta roller. I use this roller that attaches to my KitchenAid Mixer, and I run it through until I get to number 5. You can use it for lasagna or ravioli at this stage, or you can let the large sheets sit on your counter for 5 minutes before cutting it into its final shape. 

Cook in a pot of boiling salted water for 2-5 minutes, or until al dente. Drain and toss with marinara or butter, and top with parmesan cheese. Enjoy, while being completely amazed that everyone in your family has just devoured greens that would otherwise have been composted.

The Clothesline

This post was originally published in April 2015 when we lived in the cutest little bungalow in Atlanta. Since we left that house, I've longed for a new home that had the same feeling of home. This weekend, we hung up our clothesline in our new home on the North Shore of Massachusetts. It's funny ... that simple act of hanging a clothesline ... it feels symbolic in some ways. No longer are we wandering along a road, searching for a place to hang our hats. We are finally settled. And it feels so so good. Although our house isn't 100 years old, and there's no road that runs directly beside our new clothesline, so much of this post rings as true today as it was 3 years ago. And yes ... the picture is new :-).

I stand outside basking in the sunshine while I hang clothes on the line. Get a pin, hang it up, get a pin, hang it up. There’s something so calming about doing the laundry this way.

It’s such a sensory experience. I feel the dampness of the clothes as I pull them from the basket and put them on the line. I smell the fragrance of detergent and fabric softener. I hear cars driving, people walking, and the occasional airplane overhead. I see the many different colors in the clothes we wear daily.

And it’s no different in the taking them down. The dampness is gone – replaced with warm dryness, and sometimes that stiffness that only the sun can give. The smell has shifted to the clean smell of sunshine. We hear the siren of a fire engine; the neighbors’ dogs barking as people walk by. The sun is so warm you can almost taste it – making you long for a very cold glass of water.

As I do this work – the work of hanging up our laundry – the little ones play around me. Throwing sand out of the sandbox, picking leaves and flowers off the plants that have been patiently waiting  for the arrival of spring, inspecting the world in only the way tinies can.

People walking by sometimes stop to chat, commenting on the clothesline or the flowers we just put in. Sometimes it’s a familiar face, other times it’s a complete stranger just finding their way to their car parked down the street.

I can’t help but think back to when the house was built, over 100 years ago. Some mother did just as I now do, grab a pin, hang it up, grab a pin, hang it up. Talking to the neighbors as they walk by. Watching her little ones run around in this very same yard – I can’t help but wonder what it looked like back then.

In just a few short weeks, we have made doing laundry this way a part of our life. I find myself checking the weather at night to see if there will be sunshine to dry my clothes the next day. Hanging clothes up on the line even on cloudy days, in hopes that even a little bit of fresh air will do a tiny bit of good. I get disappointed if a day goes by and that little clothesline of mine is empty.

It’s funny how something so simple – and seemingly old fashioned – can bring such a smile to our faces. This business of hanging up clothes forces me to slow down and enjoy my surroundings. We’re all so much happier when we are outside; it just makes sense to do the daily business of life outside. The things of nature – the trees, the wind, the birds, the squirrels, the neighborhood owls – they all remind us that we are just one tiny part of the vast world that we live in.

God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good.

Dare

What a difference a year or two can make. Just two years ago we celebrated our first Christmas in New England. It was full of wonder - and not around the birth of Jesus. We were full of hesitation. Full of fear. We did a lot of pretending. Pretending that things were okay. Pretending that we liked it here. Pretending that we were in it for the long haul. We did a lot of crying that Advent. A lot of reflecting. A lot of wondering.

This Post was originally published on December 10, 2015. Life looks so different today than it did then. So much better. So much more full of life. And love. And happiness. And yet I know if we hadn't walked the journey that we've walked, we wouldn't we feel as grateful as we feel to now be on the other side.

Tomorrow I'll share with you a reflection on the journey from the other side - but for tonight, I bring you an oldie, but a goodie. Because sometimes you can't see just how far you've come without looking back to see where you started. And because maybe ... just maybe ... you find yourself in a place where you're feeling a little more darkness and despair than happiness and light. Maybe you don't know what's next for you. If that's you, I pray these words bring you a little sense of peace in the midst of your despair. 

Dare
What a bold word for this Advent season. One that I’ve been meditating on all day. It’s pretty appropriate for what I’m feeling these days. These days have been so dark and so lonely.

We had been gone just three nights when I got a text from my sister that said, “Are you loving Boston?!”

I refrained from bursting into tears as I simply replied, “We are tired and weary from traveling, but we are trying our hardest to have a good attitude.”

Dare
I didn’t know how sad I would be to make the move. We had talked about it our entire life together – I knew D wanted to explore some place other than Atlanta. He had lived there his entire life. When the job offer came, I’m the one who said “Let’s do it! It’ll be an adventure. If we hate it, we can move back.” It seemed like such an easy decision. It is Harvard after all – who can really turn that down?

But in our final days there … and in our beginning days here … the sadness began to set in. I feel like I left my whole world … for the unknown. It wasn’t perfect – but it was home. And I truly did love it. And when it became time to go … I just didn’t want to leave. I wanted to chain myself to the front door and tell the new owner – I’m sorry … we’ve changed our mind … take your money and find a different house. This one isn’t for sale.

I didn’t know how hard it would be for my sweet A. She’s such an old soul, that kid. She feels such big emotions, and at the tender young age of 3, she just isn’t sure how to process them. No one slept much our first night away. I think we all felt a little homeless … and I guess in some ways that’s what we were. In between homes – all our stuff on a truck – it was no wonder we all felt a little out of sorts. After being in a hotel a few days, even a very nice one, we were all just ready to be home.

Dare
When our stuff arrived a few days ago, we all began to feel a little more settled. We are now all in our own beds, with our own sheets, and we are even using our old ratty towels that I almost threw away but packed up at the last minute. We were all craving some sense of familiarity – some sense of being home.

We’ve started to hang a few things on the wall – and that helps a bit too – but when it comes right down to it, I’m simply feeling homesick. I miss my house … my neighbors … my church(es) … my family. I miss the Beltline. The Botanical Gardens. Zoo Atlanta. Piedmont Park. The High. Ponce City Market. Walks around Grant Park – my own backyard. The Barred Owl that hung out in the trees across the street.

Dare
So I’m trying … I’m trying to be courageous and dare to have faith! I know God has called us here for some reason – and although I have no idea what that reason is, I’m trying to have faith that it will be revealed to me soon. I’ve been thinking a lot about how our journey is happening right in the midst of Advent. I think about how the shepherds, the wise men, all of us … all expecting the light of God to shine on something grand and glorious – but instead it shines on a lowly manger. Something about that manger should be comforting to me in this time of transition … right?

And while I know in my gut we made the right decision for our little family … these days have been too short, too dark, and too lonely. I find myself praying for peace, for comfort, for connections. For strength to make this adventure a good one and for courage to continue stepping out on this limb in faith that God will provide everything that we need.

Photo by Sven Scheuermeier on Unsplash

A Love Letter of Sorts

We sold our little house in the country today. And as I walked out the door for the last time, I couldn't help but feel just a little bit teary-eyed over my final look at the kitchen. Of all the things in that house, it was the kitchen that I loved most. And it was the kitchen that loved me best. I learned so much in that kitchen. About life. About love. About nourishment.

It was in that kitchen that I learned how to cook. I mean, I used to cook at our little house in Atlanta - but it wasn't until we moved here that I really took seriously the charge to feed my people well. Cooking became my creative outlet. It became the thing I did when I didn't know what else to do. When I felt lonely and depressed, I turned to the kitchen. And she never let me down. 

That kitchen saw me in all my best - and all my worst. I can remember falling to the floor, sobbing, as I cried out to my husband - and to God - time after time.

I don't know how to be ME here. I don't even know who I am anymore. I HATE it here. HATE it. Is it ever going to get better? I just want to go home!

And yet as that final moment came in this place that I couldn't get away from fast enough ... I couldn't help but remember the time that we hosted our very first "Sunday Funday." We had just come home from our first trip back to Georgia, and it was our attempt at really building community in that community-lacking town. It was in that kitchen where I learned how important it is to invite people over - even when the house wasn’t in its best shape. I learned how to feed people - not only with amazing food, but with friendship. I learned how to let people in, how to help them make themselves at home.

I learned that people here in New England don't just show up on your doorstep unexpectedly - but if you invite them over, they will come. Sometimes even at the drop of a hat. They will come to help you fold laundry. They will come to have tea and cake with you. They will eat the food you created when you were feeling a little down in the dumps. They'll help you pack your boxes. They'll learn to love you something fierce. And when they do - they'll never let you go. 

There was something about leaving this cute little house for the last time that made me well up inside. In so many ways, leaving this house made me feel like a big fat failure. I wanted so badly to love it there. I wanted to come to New England and settle and live. I wanted to give my kids stability. I wanted them - and me - to find friends that would last forever. I had no intention on moving a gazillion times and never really being able to feel at home. And there was something about leaving that house that made me feel like I was giving up.

It reminds me a little of what I felt like when my divorce was final. I knew it was the best decision. I knew there was so much life ahead, so much better life - so much love and joy that we are already experiencing on the other side - but in that moment of locking the door for the very last time ... I just felt awful that I couldn’t make it work. 

That house ... it was such a safe place in the wilderness for us. It was a gift really - but then the wilderness always is. It was a safe place to wrestle with what we really wanted life to be about. A place where we learned to really listen to God's call. A place where God formed us, crafted us, refined us. We really learned who we were ... and in so many ways were reminded Whose we were.

As I drove away, I couldn't help but think about that old Kenny Rogers classic,

You've got to know when to hold'em,
know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
Know when to run...

It was our time to walk away. Sometimes failure isn't a bad thing. Sometimes admitting defeat is the only way we can move forward and live the fullness that God has promised. And when it comes right down to it, that's really what the Resurrection is all about.

So ...

So long little kitchen. So long little house. We loved you well for the 15 months that you were ours. We will forever be grateful for the way you loved us. For the things you taught us. For the protection and joy that you gave us. We can only hope your new owner loves you even better than we did.

The Last Move: Part Two

This is part two of the story. If you haven't read it yet, start here.

In some ways, it was an easy decision. We finally found a place we loved - why wouldn't we move there?

But in other ways, it was painful. After moving three times in six months, the last thing I wanted to do was move again. I wanted to be settled. I wanted to put down roots. I did not want to pack and unpack boxes again.

We had just spent 3 months in an incredibly exhausting, but incredibly inspiring school search. You see, elementary schools in our town are all open-enrollment. That's a fancy way of saying there are no school districts - but instead one big district - and enrollment is all done by a lottery. Families rank 6 schools in order of their preference and the district does what they can to match people in their requested school. It reminded me a lot of sorority recruitment ... it's not perfect, but most times it works out.

We went to tours and information nights, we talked to other parents, we talked to current students, teachers, principals, we read books and articles on education styles and philosophies. We found an incredible school - it was a perfect match for us. My children would be taught in a similar way that we would teach them if we were to homeschool. They would be connected to kids of all ages - not just the ones in their individual classes. They'd have the same teacher two years in a row. They would learn in a project-based setting. They wouldn't have homework. They would learn through play. It would give us a community in this town that felt oh-so-difficult to make connections. It was the only school I wanted them to go to. And after the lottery was held, we learned that we got in. It's everything I wanted for my kids in the realm of education ... why the hell would we give that up?!

When it came down to it, school wasn't a big enough reason for us to stay in a town that did very little to fulfill our heart's desires. We knew if we didn't go now, we'd fall in love with the school and we'd stay here forever. I would become a person I never really wanted to be. I would lose myself for the sake of my kids' education. And we agreed that wasn't a good way to live.

So - after a lot of conversation and prayer, we put our house on the market. It would be a very short listing - if it didn't sell within a couple of weeks, we would stay put, try out Kindergarten, and revisit the decision at the end of the school year. God must have heard that as a prayer & a challenge, because we were under contract within a week. We now had about four weeks to find a new place to live.

I found a realtor who just happened to be mutual friends with people I know from my Georgia days. She was able to answer all of our questions, talk to us about specific neighborhoods, churches, people, areas. She listened to our non-negotiables. We need sidewalks. We need walkability. We need neighbors. We need a park. We had already fallen in love with one neighborhood, but she encouraged us to visit a few others. We put offers in - got outbid - and watched the inventory dwindle.

We began to think about what compromises we were willing to make. We found another house that we wanted to see. It was a somewhat busy street, but we loved the features. It was the right school district. It was near places we wanted to be near. I was ready to settle on it. I needed a new home in this town - and I needed it fast. So we made plans to go to a Friday open house. And I kid you not ... the house went under contract at noon that day. After I had already made the hour drive. That afternoon, our realtor sent us a new list of houses. These are on the higher end of your budget, and aren't really in the exact locations you've been looking at, but you should drive by them and see what you think.

I looked them all up and decided I'd drive by the ones with a walkability score of 45 or higher. There were two. One was way out of our price range, and I didn't love the neighborhood. The other seemed okay - but I really didn't want to live in the Northern part of the city. But wait ... it had an open house that night ... so it couldn't hurt to go look, right? 

We picked D up from the train station and went to one of our favorite parks to play. I don't want to see it, I said - much like a stubborn child. I don't WANT to live there. I WANT to live HERE! But we went. He practically had to drag me into the house. I left thinking, This is a nice house. Someone will really love it.

And as we were getting in the car, a gentleman on the street said Is it nice? Yes, we said; it's very nice. Do you live in the neighborhood?

I do. I live right around the corner. We love it. It's the best neighborhood in Beverly.

I laughed. We don't really want to live up here. We really want to live closer to downtown. What makes this the best neighborhood in Beverly?

The people. The people are amazing. This is the kind of neighborhood you can borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbors if you need one. We walk everywhere. All the time. There are tons of kids. It's safe - they play together all the time. People watch out for one another.

We continued our conversation for a while, and then said our goodbyes. As I got in the car, I looked to my sweet D and said,

Seriously? The kind of neighborhood you can borrow a cup of sugar in? How the hell did he know I'm the one that would go to my neighbor's house to borrow eggs and sugar?! I DON'T WANT to live here. But I kind of love it.

On our drive home, we talked about it. It was on the very top end of our price range - but it needed no work. It wouldn't be yet another starter home ... this would be our forever home. We went home and worked on numbers. We asked our realtor to meet us there for the next open house. We made an offer - and attached a letter where I poured my heart out to the sellers. I told them how much we loved the house and the neighborhood. I told them how we had been searching all over the Boston area for a place to truly call home. I told them we would love their house forever and would treat it with nothing but love and kindness.

Three days later, our realtor called and said - They want you to have the house. There was a higher offer, but they just feel like this is your house. They want you to have it. I cried - tears of joy, tears of relief, tears of disbelief. I said a prayer of thanksgiving, and a prayer of awe that God would work in this way.

But even after that moment, there were still times of doubt. Especially once our oldest started school, I began to wonder why we were pulling her away from something she - and I - loved so much. And then ... as I was at her dance studio waiting for her ballet class to end ... I got a notification from Facebook. A day or two earlier, I had posted on a local page asking if anyone had Kindergarten students at the school we would be zoned for. My daughter was sad to be leaving her friends, and I'd love to make her some new ones, I said. Someone responded to that post, telling me the school was wonderful and asking if I just happened to be the person buying the house on her street. 

Yes! Do you live in the neighborhood?

I do! I live on that road!

Wait a second ... I think we met your husband at the open house.

Oh I bet you did! He told me he met the nicest family!

We continued our conversation and I decided she was going to be an awesome neighbor. As the weekend went on, our paths crossed online several other times. I discovered we had a gazillion things in common, and I couldn't believe the gifts God was giving us with this move. It's like every thing we had been praying for - in all of our adult life together - was finally coming together in this last move. We met the other neighbors - and as we stood in the street talking to them about who we were and when we were moving, I felt this overwhelming sense of gratitude. All this time we thought we needed a specific location. But what we really needed was a community of people ... and God knew that more than we did.

That house - that neighborhood - it's ours now. We begin our last move today. We've already found a church to call home. After a lot of prayer, we've decided to home school and already have a home school community to help us navigate how to make that a positive thing in our family and home. We have a beautiful house that we can live in forever. And we have the most amazing neighbors we could ever ask for.

It took a long time, and a lot of searching, but we have found our New England dream. We have found our new home.

The Last Move

It's 7:50am on a Wednesday morning. My house is a complete disaster - boxes in every room ... some full, others waiting to be packed. Every room has stuff everywhere ... and if I look around and think about it for just a second, I end up on the verge of a panic attack. But the tiniest begged to watch Madeline, and the older tiny just got on the bus for her next-to-last day of school, so I am ignoring all the mess and using the time to write. Just write.

We are about to close yet another chapter on our "Rowes Move to Boston" adventure.  We hope this is the last ... and that the next chapter becomes it's own book. It's been a long road - one that has many twists and turns. It's been a lot of wandering. A lot of wondering just what we were doing. A lot of questioning just what in the world God has in store for us here.

It was almost exactly two years ago when we received the call inviting us to come to Boston for the first time. We planned a vacation around my husband's interview - knowing that this would be a huge move, and a decision he wouldn't be able to make on his own. I remember that week so vividly. The hotels we stayed in. The adventures we had. The Boston Common, the Public Gardens, Copley Square, Boston Public Library, Franklin Park Zoo, Historic Lexington, the Boston Children's Museum ... it was one of the best vacations we've taken as a family. I could live here, I told him.  I think we'd really love it here.

The day of his interview I took the girls to the most amazing playspace I had ever seen. They were so tired by the end of the day that I ended up walking half a mile from the bus stop to our hotel wearing a sleeping A on my back and carrying a sleeping E in my arms, while also carrying our bag for the day. What was supposed to be a 2-hour interview turned into 5. We took that as a good sign. 

I can remember our conversation that evening as clear as day - we were on the T, headed to dinner.

If this happens, we can't say no. It's an incredible opportunity. There's no reason not to take it. Massachusetts is one of the best places to raise kids. You can go back to school for very little cost. This is a no-brainer.

And then it happened. He got the offer. We said yes. And it wasn't until we had a buyer for our little Grant Park bungalow that the reality set in for me. We were leaving everything I had ever wanted. Grant Park was my dream. I had fabulous neighbors. I lived across the street from a beautiful park. An incredible farmer's market was just blocks away. We could walk to one of the best zoos in the nation. We spent our free time at art museums, botanical gardens, history museums, parks. All of our memories were in Atlanta ... and we were giving it all up. 

I remember a friend telling me it would all be okay. You guys build community wherever you go. You'll find your village. You'll find your tribe. And so with those words in our mind, we left our home in search of a brighter future. 

We never thought it would be easy, but I can't say we expected it to be as difficult as it has been. Building our village here has been so hard - and so slow. We've made incredible friends - yet this place has never really felt like home.

When we last visited Georgia as a family, we were wrecked. When we walked through the park, I sobbed like a baby. This is my home. I want to come home, I said. I cried out to God ... literally ... in tears as we went to bed at night.

God ... please ... I want to come home. This is where I want to be. Please. Please. PLEASE! I'm begging you.

We made a plan. We decided D would look for jobs and we would hope to be home by Christmas. We contacted friends and neighbors who may have leads for openings. He called old companies, sent in proposals, updated resumes. With as big a network as we have, and as skilled as he is, we thought it would only be a matter of months before we had an opportunity to go back South.

And then I had lunch with a dear friend of mine. She was the first friend I made here - and quickly became the best friend I've had in all my adult life. As we watched our kids play together, I told her - I'm not sure I'm ready to go back. I don't want to stay. But I don't know that I want to go back. She's so wise - this friend of mine. I will be crushed if you leave. But I want you to be happy. And I don't think you're happy where you are. Are there places here that you could live that you might like better than where you are right now? 

So while we were looking for opportunities back home, we also started searching for a community here that would be more like home. We looked at train lines. I talked to people. Summer came - finally - and we ventured out to find beaches and splash pads and all things outdoors. We discovered Beverly. And as I drove through it for the very first time, it reminded me of home. It was gritty - and yet beautiful. It was historic - and yet slightly urban. It had beaches. Parks. Playgrounds. A splash pad. Coffee shops. Museums. The best Mexican we've had since we moved to Massachusetts. It had sidewalks.

You could say we fell in love. Hard and fast. After just one day there, the girls and I came home so happy that D said I need to go see this place. So we went back. Over and over and over again. And every single time we visited, we were filled to the brim. After just two months, we decided we'd move there. Sure, we had a house to sell - but we felt confident this was a move God was pushing us to make. We felt like this was the answer to our prayers.

God wasn't going to let us move home ... because there is a better home for us here. We just had to find it. 

Stay tuned for the rest of the story - coming one week from today!

EDIT - You can read part two of the story here!