So I’m packing up my old clothes, with my old and foolish ways…

Another ‘about to move house’ post, sorry!

The moving process is harder then I expected it to be.
I think I’ve coped rather well so far. I got through our Circuit goodbye service without crying, my last day at work without crying, said goodbye to my best friend, and sat through our last service at our home church all without shedding a tear. But it’s the physical process of moving that is currently driving me rather scatty. I’ve cleaned, and sorted, donated to the charity shop and the tip, tidied and labelled.

It’s tricky because this is my first glimpse at the lack of control we’re going to have over our future and living our lives for the Church.

The packers.

We’re paying a removal company to do our packing for us. I thought it would be a good idea. But… I’m a control freak, and I cannot control what goes in which box, how those boxes will be labelled, what will be mixed together, and where they will be placed the other end. It may sound a silly thing, but I know I will face this again every 5 years until hubby retires. It’s something I thought I was ok with, until this packing up business reared its ugly head.

A couple of months ago I had a ‘moment’ in the car, driving who knows where, listening to a praise and worship album. When on popped a live version of Darlene Zschech singing the song ‘The Potter’s Hand’. I hadn’t heard this particular version before, though know the song well. I was struck dumb, listening to this beautiful rendition, tears of surrender pouring down my cheeks. I knew all of a sudden that what we as a family were doing was the right thing.

And it was all going so well. 5 days after putting the house on the market, 1st viewing, we received and accepted an offer for more than the market value. Yippee! We thought…. God is in this with us, he’s sold our house! Go God!
Uh uh. The day before we signed contracts, our buyer pulled out, no reason given. 5 weeks back on the market, house primped and preened, tidied and dusted, repainted within an inch of it’s life, no interest whatsoever. Oh Lord, what are you trying to tell us? Our plans for the sale money were wrong? That you have a school in mind you need me to be at, rather than lolling around at home playing with ink and paper? That our plans for me to not work so we can try to adopt are not really your plans? We still have a mortgage to pay now, after all….

I have two things that keep cropping up in my tired and worried brain. The 1st is Luke 9:58, which states,

The Son of Man, the person I had that moment with during that song, had nowhere to live. What are you stressing about, girl! You will have 2 homes in 2 days time! Consider me told off, God.

The other thing twirling around my sleep deprived brain is a song I first heard at the home of a beautiful family about 20 years ago. It was written by the singer Randy Stonehill, and goes a lot like this:

Toys from my childhood, old photographs, left in this dusty old suitcase. The things we once cherished are lost with the past, seek out the treasure that always will last. So, I’m packing up my old clothes with my old and foolish ways, they don’t seem to fit me anymore. I see the light of morning with different eyes today, and I’m giving my tomorrows to the Lord.

Bless you, Randy Stonehill. The exact things I’ve wanted to pack into the car in case there are moving issues…. my childhood teddies, my wedding dress and photograph albums, the things I can’t replace and can’t bear to loose…. perhaps these are the emotions I need to be letting go of. Because I am packing up who I am. Childless teacher becomes Minister’s wife. Who I am is different, and needs to be different for the road ahead of us. Working, or not working. House sold or not sold, what we are stepping out in faith to do is more important and is above my insecurities.

‘I am no longer mine, but Yours’