Holding pattern.

We're gearing up for another major move in the next few days--this time from MA to NH for a month. Then it's down south to central CT, where the Scientist Dad has landed a cushy professorship (doesn't that sound grand?). We're hoping and praying that this move is a move toward home.

Meanwhile, the madness of planning, packing, and sorting has descended. The kids are a little discomforted, I'm relapsing into stress-mode, and it's hot. We're in holding pattern, just waiting and counting down the days.

At first, I was just sad. Western MA has got to be one of the most beautiful places I've been blessed to live. I don't want to leave, even for the golden egg of a tenure-track position. Then I was angry: What the heck? Another move? Then mad at myself: And why is this bothering me so much? I chose this life. Suck it up, Momma!

I'm still sad and mad, but starting to feel the anticipation of a new life. The idea of really being able to set down roots somewhere (even in suburban CT) is so appealing. That restless, insatiable desire of the heart for a real home is giving me the strength to keep packing.

In the wee hours, I try to turn that desire and exhaustion to heaven, our final home. It's not that hard to do: it is a common (and possibly universal) human tendency. We long for home.

As we approach the end of the Easter/Pascha season and the great feasts of the Ascension and Pentecost, the whole trajectory of the Christian mystery comes into view. The long, dark Lent and the radical light of the resurrection -- they've all pointed to this moment when the Lord rises into heaven to receive his crown. The fruit of this mystery is hope: And hope does not disappoint.

I haven't seen much of our new home in CT. I have heard good things, but am still stepping into the unknown. Another death: another resurrection. "Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, what God has prepared for those who love him."