When Jonathan and I lived in Middle Georgia we were settled; until a week before he resigned his position, we were planning to grow old there. But when he did resign and we ended up coming west in the state, it was supposed to be temporary. At first, Jonathan had a very temporary job, and I was selling real estate full time and not very successfully. This wasn’t the promised land, it was just a stop over until Jonathan could either return to church ministry or enroll in seminary.
It turned into a five year stop over.
The entire time we knew it wasn’t permanent. When contract renewal time came up for teaching every year, we’d ask the Lord if this was the year we were supposed to move on. We bought a fixer-upper house specifically because we knew we would need sweat equity in a home here – we knew it wasn’t permanent. We’ve had furniture and appliances in storage for five years. We’ve had books and photographs in boxes waiting a permanent home. This has never been the Promised Land for us.
It has, however, become comfortable, and now that there’s a for sale sign in my front yard, and I’m in the last week of school, I realize that I want West Central Georgia to be our Promised Land. Both of my children will have this county stamped on their birth certificates for the rest of their lives. We have such fantastic friends, and have been so blessed with a loving and supporting church family. One of the young women in our small group just found out she’s pregnant. I want to be here to watch her bloom in her pregnancy, and then to watch her and her husband grow in this journey called parenting. I want my daughter to be able to say “Oh Abigail’s been my friend since before we were one. We used to play in the church nursery together.” When my mackerdoodle sees friends like Terri and Andrea and their daughters in her baby book, I want her to know who those people are because we just saw them last week.
Faced with another four years of transience, I suddenly find myself wanting to dig in my toes and force them to become roots in this red West Central Georgia clay.
I don’t want to leave here I don’t want to stay
It feels like pinching to me either way
And it does. We’ve been waiting for this opportunity for five years, but now that it’s here it’s pinching me. I’ve found myself not knowing how to pray, feeling both elated and deflated when Jonathan was notified that he had received a 50% scholarship, wanting to cry and rejoice when the Presbytery affirmed him as a student and brought him under care.
On the way to church on Sunday a song I know by heart but had forgotten came on the radio. It was precisely the reminder I needed and I have been forcing myself to meditate on this truth, when I find myself bogged down in the pinching present.
All of You is more than enough for all of me
For every thirst and every need
You satisfy me with Your love
And all I have in You is more than enough
The verses contain the repeated phrase “Still more awesome than I know” and I was struck on Sunday that when we left Middle Georgia, I had no idea how blessed we would be for five years here in this temporary home. Not only is Christ enough but his blessings continue to be more awesome than I know. More awesome than roots and unpacked books. More awesome than church nursery friendships. More awesome than more scrapbooking nights with Jawan, or visiting Danielle with her new baby in the hospital or all of the things that I think I need and will leave holes in me when we pack up and go.
St. Louis will be more awesome than I know, not because it is new and exciting, but because it is the path created by a God who is so much more than enough to cover those things, and provide new things. He is a God who is more than enough in salvation, but also more than enough in these seemingly trivial aches of our human corrupted hearts.
He is more than enough, and He continues to be more awesome than I know. So I’m putting down my paintbrush and looking toward the next stop over on our way to our Promised Land. The journey is bound to be more awesome than I now know.