we are eating from lime green plastic plates and we stretch that with throw-away bowls for the visitors playing cards on the back deck. i’ve simmered a pot of hot and spicy southwestern chicken soup and there’s a bit of avocado and shredded pepper jack cheese fresh home from the farm market. the kids have invited the two-weeks-a-summer neighbor grandkids who share kindred hearts and they’re creating a ruckus that echoes off the raw wood of the new construction on either side. this neighborhood still bears the scars of a long-past storm, fresh in the hearts of its residents. most are only here a few days or weeks a year, and so the neighborhood is largely ours.
in our little cottage by the sea, we feel foreign and temporary, tripping over each other and the unfamiliar spacing between doors and walls. our “things” are not all here, but take residence in a storage unit miles away. our hearts are somewhat unsettled in this space, and still somehow we are connected in our lost-ness.
we cannot doubt, either, that we are mutually called here, and our eyes and ears are open to answer that call. how can we help it? everywhere we turn, though they express it differently that what we are used to, His people and those that do not know Him have welcomed us. maybe over a shop counter and perhaps in a church fellowship hall, sometimes with a big smile and sometimes an awkward first conversation with a potential new friend, the people we meet have already shown us that our Papa has us in His arms, even in a new place. in it all, the new world outside our door is wide open and begs us to explore.
and so explore we will, and dig new roots for fresh growth for this little family of vines, vines that must stay close to our Father’s nourishing help so that we can grow into this bright new land.
now i pray for patience to be right here in this place, to not wish away the temporary when it is all temporary. to not rush headlong into what may come ahead, but live in this moment of rest, and of healing, and all things being new.