When I got engaged two and half years ago and told my mom I was moving to England, she said she’d known all along; that she’d begun preparing herself when I was still a young teenager for the day I would inevitably leave the nest with gusto.
I’ve always prided myself on being a nomad, never content to settle down, to be still, to plant my feet too firmly. And so I haven’t really known how to handle the change that’s been taking place in me lately: an unfamiliar longing for a home, a place to stay and call my own. I am a renter, a mover, an anti-planner who fears commitment in all its forms; at least, that’s who I’ve always been.
But who says people can’t change?
I want to paint my walls, plant a garden, and prepare a nursery. I want to start ministries at my church that I know I can see through. I want to stock my house with comfy furniture and not worry about where I’ll store it when I go on my next jaunt. I’m tired, at last, of moving and shaking; I’ve reached that point I thought would never come, when I want to plant my feet and bloom.