The other day, I teared up when I saw a Tennessee license plate, then when a friend who was visiting the area posted how beautiful it was, and again when I heard a podcast guest say they were from Franklin, Tennessee – a place our family planned on moving to for the better part of a year.
Like most military families, I’ve dreamed of planting roots for years. So when my husband moved to a reserve position within the Air Force, and we finally found our way back home to Arizona, I thought we’d never dream of leaving.
But sometimes, when you’re gone long enough, your definition of home changes.
The desert felt drier than ever for the two kids who grew up here. I never imagined the place I called home could hold so much hurt a short year and a half after we moved back. Why not move? My husband runs his own business; he could work from anywhere. We realized nothing was keeping us here. What if we looked at a map and chose somewhere with things we loved about all the places we’d passed through over the last decade?
We fell hard for Franklin, Tennessee and dreamt of replacing a home base that now seemed tainted. But I felt like God was asking us to “Be still.” So, we decided to table the idea for a few months.
Some thought military life stirred this desire for change. I didn’t think so, but I suppose the lines between complacency and contentment become blurred.
A few months passed, but our feelings didn’t change, so we visited Tennessee weeks before Christmas and met with a realtor. We drove through its rolling hills, dreaming of a fresh start. We went through neighborhood after neighborhood and ranked our favorite ones. But it was the middle of the school year, and we had various projects to prepare for selling our house, so we planned to move after the kid’s second semester.
However, by the time we were finally ready to list our house for sale, my husband’s business had grown so much that we weren’t sure how to make a move happen. What was allowing us the flexibility to move suddenly made it complicated. If we had more time, just half a year or so, he could hire more employees, and then we could move without adding more to his plate, but we wouldn’t want to move our oldest going into his senior year, so we spent a week rehashing our decision to move.
In the end, we decided Arizona was home – for now. While I feel at peace with the decision, it resides next to my disappointment and discouragement. We think stillness is about movement or lack of it, but it’s more about surrender. Surrendering to the places and seasons we find ourselves in, surrendering our wounds, plans, and dreams.
It’s not easy. We find ourselves in seasons of waiting, seasons that feel like we’re in the wilderness, seasons that feel dry, seasons of grief, and seasons of stillness when all we want to do is move (figuratively or literally).
I’m quick to question why I’m experiencing circumstances, seasons, or a place when I should focus more on the who.
- Who knitted me together in my mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13 ESV).
- Who knows the plans He has for me. (Jeremiah 29:11 ESV).
- Who works all things together for good (Romans 8:28 ESV).
To surrender to the season we are in, we must first let go of the ideals we hold onto – the ways we thought something would look or turn out.
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.” (Isaiah 55:8 ESV).
Sometimes, being intentional in surrendering looks like letting go of our plans and dreams, and embracing a different kind of present, as we experience His presence amidst the tears we shed for something we longed for.
Sarah Nichols is a writer who loves encouraging women by sharing hope-filled stories that point others to Jesus. She lives in Tucson, AZ, with her husband and four kids. You can find more from Sarah at http://sarahnicholswrites.com.
