Thrifty? Or just hopeful?

Part of this year's move is downsizing.  I've acquired a piano (it was Great-Grandmother's, how could I say no?), and I intend to make space for it in the moving van by ditching it's cubic-foot equivalent in boxes of other stuff.  So it's out with the extra tongs and rarely-used spatulas, vanilla scented candles and flower vases, lidless Tupperware and tired-out clothes.  I'm even sorting through boxes the boxes we we left in the basement labeled, but unpacked.

There's one corner of the basement, though, that pains me each time I walk past.  It's the corner where we've piled up the bins of clothes our son has outgrown, the supports for the cradle we no longer use, the baby toys he doesn't like anymore, the box of maternity clothes I haven't worn in years.

In saving them, I had no question I would need some of them again- at least the maternity clothes.  But possibly those baby clothes as well.  We could have another boy!   So we kept them.  A year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them that summer, thinking they'd save us money if we had another boy on vicarage.  But the year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them again.  Another year has passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  Now they sit in the corner of the basement, reminding me all the while that there still is no other baby to wear the clothes, despite all of our prayers.

I can't help but wonder if there ever will be another baby to wear those clothes.  I can't help but wonder if I'm missing the small wonders happening around me with the son I do have by holding on to those clothes and moving them one more time.  I can't help but wonder if I ought to let someone else get some use out of them, and trust that God will provide should he see fit to give us another child.  Perhaps letting go of those clothes would help ease some of the pain.

Market to market

In a few short weeks, I'll be moving home.  Home, I say.  Home.  As in, the place where memories meet futures and I can sit for long evenings at my mother's table and share with my son the stories of our lives.  As Call Day approached, I had imagined I would end up feeling a bit like Sarai or Ruth; but like Naomi, I get to go home.  While I'll still be 75 miles from my mother's kitchen table, I'm certain I'll find it's a rather short distance for my homesick heart.

What's more, I'm not just returning a place where my mother is.  I'm returning to a place whose stories have become intertwined with mine.  A place whose customs and traditions have influenced my view of the world, and set me apart from so many others I've met along the way.  A place like no other place; the good life.  I am content.