The first cold front of the season is now bringing rain on the plain, mud on the dogs and smears on the carpet as we dust off our flannel and denim and prepare for the onset of autumn. Facebook promises pot roast, casseroles and cool-weather treats and the stores are filling up with Hallowe'en, Thanksgiving and Christmas seasonals already. From the calendar's perspective, it's still summer, but who am I to argue these fine points.
'Course climate change is not the big fish on the center of the plate at my house these days. It's the upcoming move to Africa that's occupying most of our attention right now, the things that must be done before we leave, and preparation for what awaits once we hit the ground there. We're packing, moving stuff to storage, arranging our oldest son's wedding, raising funds, making lists and checking things off said lists -- but the lists get longer as the things are checked off, it seems.
Resigning volunteer positions at church has hit us hard, emotionally. Losing my job after nine years didn't have as much of an impact on me (other than financially) as this. Leaving behind people I've worshipped with, laughed, cried, worked with side-by-side and seen overcome the hardships of life is the tough thing. Stuff you can put into storage; people, not so much. Letting go.
My kids. If they've never grown up before, now is the time. We won't be just a phone call away any more, nor will they. Sure, there's Skype, and we'll be doing that. Often. But no more lunches on days off; no more, "Hey, can you get me from work, my car's got a flat," or "Hey, we're cooking out on the grill, want to come over?" and no more, "Can I come talk to you? I'm very unhappy right now and need somebody to listen..." At least not in the way it has been till now. We'll adapt.
This is not a complaint. Don't get me wrong. We chose this. When you choose a path, you choose the hills and rocks and snakes and whatever you encounter on the path, no doubt. There's more ahead than there is behind, for sure, and that's where we keep our eyes and our expectations-- ahead. When I took our kids and some of their friends caving several years ago at Devil's Den in Arkansas, we went into a cave that was way above our skill level; we had to get a permit to go in, and register at the park office to get the key to the iron gate at the cave's entrance. When the seven teens and pre-teens and I locked ourselves in the gate, we looked into the cave's mouth, a six or seven-foot drop down a mud-walled hole into the twilit entrance of the cave. There we stood in our t-shirts and jeans, flashlights in hand, hard-hats on our heads, and realized that the only way in was to slide down the muddy pit's sloping sides, and at that moment we had to make the commitment to go for it. Accept the mud. Accept the chill; the wet, the rocky, the dark, to see what was next. One by one, we slid down that muddy slide. Say goodbye to the t-shirts, the jeans, the shoes, whatever you may have been trying to preserve... it was now changed forever. You can't go spelunking and stay clean. Period. All change is like that. You commit to what lies ahead, and you go, and you accept that nothing will ever be the same as it was. Ever.
'Course climate change is not the big fish on the center of the plate at my house these days. It's the upcoming move to Africa that's occupying most of our attention right now, the things that must be done before we leave, and preparation for what awaits once we hit the ground there. We're packing, moving stuff to storage, arranging our oldest son's wedding, raising funds, making lists and checking things off said lists -- but the lists get longer as the things are checked off, it seems.
Resigning volunteer positions at church has hit us hard, emotionally. Losing my job after nine years didn't have as much of an impact on me (other than financially) as this. Leaving behind people I've worshipped with, laughed, cried, worked with side-by-side and seen overcome the hardships of life is the tough thing. Stuff you can put into storage; people, not so much. Letting go.
My kids. If they've never grown up before, now is the time. We won't be just a phone call away any more, nor will they. Sure, there's Skype, and we'll be doing that. Often. But no more lunches on days off; no more, "Hey, can you get me from work, my car's got a flat," or "Hey, we're cooking out on the grill, want to come over?" and no more, "Can I come talk to you? I'm very unhappy right now and need somebody to listen..." At least not in the way it has been till now. We'll adapt.
This is not a complaint. Don't get me wrong. We chose this. When you choose a path, you choose the hills and rocks and snakes and whatever you encounter on the path, no doubt. There's more ahead than there is behind, for sure, and that's where we keep our eyes and our expectations-- ahead. When I took our kids and some of their friends caving several years ago at Devil's Den in Arkansas, we went into a cave that was way above our skill level; we had to get a permit to go in, and register at the park office to get the key to the iron gate at the cave's entrance. When the seven teens and pre-teens and I locked ourselves in the gate, we looked into the cave's mouth, a six or seven-foot drop down a mud-walled hole into the twilit entrance of the cave. There we stood in our t-shirts and jeans, flashlights in hand, hard-hats on our heads, and realized that the only way in was to slide down the muddy pit's sloping sides, and at that moment we had to make the commitment to go for it. Accept the mud. Accept the chill; the wet, the rocky, the dark, to see what was next. One by one, we slid down that muddy slide. Say goodbye to the t-shirts, the jeans, the shoes, whatever you may have been trying to preserve... it was now changed forever. You can't go spelunking and stay clean. Period. All change is like that. You commit to what lies ahead, and you go, and you accept that nothing will ever be the same as it was. Ever.
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