Dreaming-1, Doing-0

 Chad tells me that a concerned friend took him aside to check in on me. “It almost sounded like she was serious when she said she loved moving. What’s up with that?!?”

So Mark, this one is for you. 

Yes. I said I love moving. Remember—the adventure, the newness, the starting over with all the possibilities open? SO much fun.

But I learned something new this past few weeks that came to a head just yesterday. I love the IDEA of moving. I do NOT, in fact, love the logistics of moving. 

In fact, I hate it. I despise it. You might go as far as saying I abhor it. 

Let me count the ways.

1. I hate putting my stuff on FB marketplace for the world to see, only to have obvious scammers immediately beg to buy it if only I’ll give them my number for their husband to arrange details of pick up. I still haven’t figured out their angle, but after a few go-arounds, I started immediately recognizing it and telling them sweetly that “trying to scam people is not kind”. They never responded to that.

2. I hate having to decide just HOW much I love something. Like—enough to take across the ocean? Enough to pack away in storage where moth and rust destroy? Or just enough to put it out there for scammers to pounce on? The wedding dress and bouquet and scrapbooks went into storage. The dining room table and buffet went to a lovely couple who were not scammers but in fact a pastor and his wife needing needing a new dining room. I loved that. But I do not love looking at my faithful coffee pot-which I bought for $5 at a synagogue sale in 2017- and having to admit that it is not worth taking to the world of 220-volts, or putting in storage for some future date, or selling on the dreaded FB, but knowing it is loved all the same and will be missed. 

3. I hate working hard to sort and pack those loved items for the crate to be shipped across the ocean, only to have nice but entirely uninvested young men show up to load it. I hate watching themshove the items haphazardly into bigger boxes that don’t fit as well, and wrapping even the 20-year-old camping cot worth 75 cents on a good day with enough bubble wrap to protect an egg in a science fair. With all the skill of the underpaid, they managed to squeeze Chad’s expertly prepared 200 cubic feet of our future into 280 cubic feet. An extra $1600 worth of bubble wrap and air pockets. I abhor that. 

3. I hate moving large mattresses down the stairs and around corners. In fact, it brought to mind a moment frozen in my memory from the day we stepped off the plane in Malawi. After 36 hours of travel, we deplaned and stepped into Africa. 7-year old Anya lifted her arms and her head, spun slowly around in wonder, and gushed, “Home sweet home sweet home!” 4-year old Ethan collapsed, spread-eagle on the hot tarmac, and said, “I just can’t take any more!” Yesterday morning I was Ethan.

4. I hate flying in America, where one is expected to survive long and grueling travel on a small bag of pretzels and a plastic sip of soda. Especially after a week of intentionally eating everything in the house so nothing gets wasted, and then wrestling large mattresses until you run out of time to get to the store for snacks. I definitely hate getting to the layover airport and trying not to cry at what they can charge for bad food.  And don’t even get me started on the gluten-free options. A $25 personal cauliflower pizza most definitely cross-contaminated, or a small bag of beef jerky. It cost us $105 to eat lunch. I wish I was joking. 

5. I hate saying goodbye to people. We can pretend “It’s just ‘see ya later,’” but it’s all the same and it all stinks the stinkiest stink that ever stank. I started saying goodbye when I was 10, and while I’m good at it, it kills me a little bit inside every time. And I haven’t even had to say goodbye to my oldest 2 kids yet. That just might kill me dead. 

So you were right, Mark. I lied—to you and to myself. I do NOT, in fact, love actually moving. But I do love being moved. I think. (I hereby  reserve the right the count the ways that traveling back to Africa with 2 teens and still too much stuff is just as abhorrent.) But for now, that’s what I’m clinging to. That and the fact that I survived too many heart-wrenching goodbyes, crating mistakes, a king-sized mattress, airport food, and walking away from my faithful coffee maker, and I’m still kicking. In fact, I’m sitting in a beach house overlooking the Pacific Ocean, surrounded by the beauty of Oregon, and I’m actually ok. Tired and worn, to be sure, but ok. We have a week here to take some deep breaths and enjoy my family before we start the goodbyes and the travel all over again. But for now, I’m going to enjoy the time, enjoy loving people enough that it hurts to say goodbye to them, and trust that God will provide me another good coffee maker in the land of fresh roasted coffee beans delivered to my door by motorbike.