lacrosse and a little blue house

I cry a lot. Especially at little things - like commercials, and sweet moments in TV shows, when I read just-the-right string of words in a book or on a screen, when I take communion or sing a favorite hymn at church. Lately it's been even more frequent - standing in the grocery store, or sitting on the floor next to the dishwasher because it's full and so is the sink and there's nowhere else in this &*^% tiny kitchen to put my half-full mug of morning coffee.

Those are the tired tears.

And today I cried at lunch, sitting on my big cozy couch, curled up under my old blue fleece blanket, with a tiny kitten sniffing my toast, while I sipped leftover minestrone with soft pasta shells and big hunks of butternut squash.

This is what made me cry:

I cried because of the lacrosse commercial, because I don't want to do all of that again.  I don't want to find a new bank, or a new gym, or Lord-please-not-again a new church. I don't want to get lost in the grocery store for months before it finally starts to feel right. I want to know exactly which coffee shop makes the best drip coffee - sweet and light so I don't have to add any milk - and exactly which Mexican restaurant has the best salsa in town. I don't want to find my GPS again, but I certainly don't want to get lost driving home at night.

I think there are some people for whom a new city means new adventure, new friends, new favorite things. Getting lost on the way home is a glorious thing, full of new twists and turns and routes. New new new.

I am not one of those people. At least, I'm not today.

I like old things. I read the same books. I watch the same TV shows. I use my grandmother's dishes every day, and cook the same recipes on a bi-weekly rotation. I don't delete emails, I listen to the same songs. I order the same food at the same restaurants. I love routines, and long for a life that rolls like clockwork from one day to the next.

I know I am not promised that kind of life, and a little bit of me wonders if I'll be bored if I ever get one.

But tonight I am tired, and Chase Bank commercials all of the sudden make me sob and sniffle into my half-eaten bowl of soup.

It's been a long 2 years - almost 2 years since the day that my sweet husband took the GMAT and we began this relentless cycle of applications-interviews-more-interviews-waiting-yes-no-maybe-not-yet-more-interviews, first for grad school, then for internships, and now for full time jobs.

And now we are done, for now, with a new home on the horizon just a few hours east of here by I-64. And we are deeply, outrageously, unspeakably grateful. But we are tired.

We're chasing opportunities as they unfold, taking deep breaths and big risks and again asking for abundant clarity and receiving it in spades. But I'm starting to realize that my 2-years of half-whispered, half-yelled prayers asking for "abundant clarity" may have been answered, but that I'm still left in a haze of what ifs and what fors and  why nots.

That old RUF hymn - I may not know the way I go, but O I know my Guide - comes to mind. His love can never fail - important now, more than ever, it feels. 

And now we will rest - something that feels new after 2 years of racing for what's next - and I will dream of Zillow listings, and a little blue house on the edge of town. We probably won't live there - some other wanderers will snatch it up long before we get to it. But that little chat window that popped up, with my sweet husband's name and the link to that house, and the promise of a question like - "what about something like this?" gives me the little bit of hope, the spark of energy, to dry my tears and buckle down and step out in faith again.