The house is in planned turmoil around me. Open boxes, closed boxes, boxes that were taped and then cut open because we still needed a plate to use in the microwave, dog toys scattered on the ground among a pair of small pink and green flip flops, clean laundry stacked in the corner, an LED lantern casually hanging out on the antique sewing machine. If only I was Mary Poppins and could cast a spell that would encourage each disparate piece to load itself in a moving box at the right moment!

Details clutter my mind as much as objects clutter my sight lines. Appointments for signing paperwork with lenders and title companies. Final walkthroughs and key exchanges. Doing something with the dog so he doesn’t get lost in the shuffle—and feeling so glad this something involves grooming for my little mop-like stinker. The schedule of the final days rolls through my mind and off my tongue as Jeremy and I confer in front of the calendar. Cross off that time, reschedule for another and trust that everything will actually truly really get accomplished when it should.

And then there’s nostalgia that overwhelms at various moments. It usually sits somewhere underneath the physical and mental pieces but every so often it sweeps up and sends a cloud of gratitude and anxiety over all else. How gratitude and anxiety can both rise up, I don’t know. But really, I am incredibly grateful for the rich blessings God has showered on us in this house. I mean, I’ve lived next door to friends for a decade now. (There was that brief period of unrest, but let’s not rehash all that.) Moving to a new neighborhood means saying goodbye in a very specific way to the Moreheads, who have become something more like family than just friends over the years. We’ve relied on them more times than I can count and they have been faithful to us. I’ve seen Renae’s tummy grow with each delightful child and then I’ve been able to love each of them and marvel over whether they’ve got Renae’s or Jason’s eyes. (I’m please that all have Renae’s pouty lip.) The anxiety steps up when I don’t trust that God knows what we need in new neighbors and wonder if they new folks will like us. Moving insecurity? Oh yes, it’s in there, too.

I’ve loved our neighbors, and our walks through and beyond the park, and our life in close proximity to church (our chief reason for moving here in the first place), and our ability to walk downtown so easily. It’s been a good ten and a half years.