Nine months ago, my husband and I sold our beloved little Craftsman in our favorite Seattle neighborhood and moved to the suburbs. We needed to move—six people, four of them growing rapidly, in a two-bedroom house was becoming untenable. No, it was already untenable. I was at the end of my rope, and my sanity.
So we moved.
And I am still grieving. I miss my little house so much. I miss my old neighborhood. It doesn’t help that now it takes 45 minutes to visit my friends or that every third day, something in our new-to-us house breaks: the furnace, the electrical outlets in the kitchen, the dishwasher. Even the baseboards are falling off the walls.
I have raged and railed and grieved. I have given thanks and made (figurative) lemonade and tried to look on the bright side. I have beaten myself up with shameful words. I have hidden. I have half-hoped the house would burn to the ground. I have tried to let go of my anger and grief. I have pleaded with God.
But I am stuck in this house. I cannot go back. I cannot unmake the decision I made last summer.
After nine months I am still—still—grieving.
I’m over at Grace Table today, friends, having a little conversation with myself about grief and gratitude and being hospitable with those parts of me I’d rather didn’t exist…I’d love to chat with you, too, if you’ll come on over and join me.
