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.

My friend Melissa recently wrote a post entitled Is Blogging Dying? I’ve wondered the very same thing and yet I have no plans to let go of my space on the world wide web. I don’t care whether the phenomenon of blogging is on it’s way out or if blogging is seen as social suicide (pop culture loves to make fun of bloggers!). I write and publish blog posts because I want to. It’s a wonderful medium for a writer/photographer and I’ll continue to share my work here as long as it’s fulfilling for me creatively.

That being said, running a blog is an investment. It goes through ups and downs and morphs into something new every so often. I used to say that I didn’t write for comments, meaning that I didn’t write in order to get feedback from anyone who reads my blog. That still holds true, and yet the honest truth is that I really enjoy comments. But y’all—bear with me here, I’m going to publicly complain—Facebook has changed things. While it has definitely expanded the numbers of readers, it also sucks the comments away from here and places them in a space that is not mine at all. Yeah, it kind of grates on me. And yeah, it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of things.

So anyhow, back to my main point. Blogging may be dying. Or it may stick around after all. As for me and my blog, we’re here for the long haul. I’ve been writing online since 2001 and I don’t plan on that changing any time soon.

Comments? Leave them here or on Facebook. ‘Cuz you know how I feel about that. ;)

Livia (age 8) and her buds Simon (age 4) and Ian (age 2) have been playing really well together. Gone are the power struggles between firstborns that we used to see a year ago and instead they’ve been doing all the classic neighborhood kid games together. Yes, they are doing this right before we move to a new neighborhood, so it’s bittersweet, but still we’re all glad that our kids are greatly enjoying each other.

On Saturday the kids had free reign over our hose and a deep bucket. They entertained themselves for hours on end and charmed my socks off when they asked for crayons and white paper to make signs for washing other people’s clothes in order to make money. It was a creative move, I’ll give them that. Some soap ended up in the large bucket—they washed Liv’s scooter and some of her clothing instead—and we think it hastened the death of a poor bird later that afternoon. I reached in the bucket to grab what I believed was the last piece of clothing and grabbed feathers instead. But don’t think about that any longer; enjoy some kid pics instead!

The day begins in a hectic fashion, more in my heart than anywhere else. Though I readily admit that pushing a child into the school day—I said put your pants on!—can be a lesson in patience. I feel the stress of the coming move acutely and keep trying to remember that God doesn’t want me to worry. Why do I forget that so easily? It’s all in his hands. Remember, remember, remember.

I grab my camera and greet the sunlit roses, orange with blushes of pink. Some are bright in the morning light, others tucked back deep in shadow. The clematis likes to use them as a trellis. After attempting to train them elsewhere, I let the flowers intermingle and make friends. A few minutes of fresh air, practicing my craft gives me years of life. The stress begins to dissipate and I recall who I am and, more importantly, Who has created me.

Today is a day for beauty, a day for praise. There’s nothing to fear. And a lot to remember.

World, this is my nephew Tafari. He is unbelievably precious and adorable and wonderful and delightfully drooly and I love him with great love. He has a dimple. I’ll show it to you soon.

We celebrated our last holiday in the Prairie Box yesterday. Amid moving boxes—some packed and others waiting with open lids—we ate ice cream cake and cheered the new eight year old in our company.

Over a decade of life was spent in these walls. Am I getting a bit sentimental now that we’re leaving? Definitely.

Happy birthday to my big kid! Dad and I love you like crazy, Liv. We are so proud of you and are thrilled to get to celebrate you today.

… Age 7
… Age 6
… Age 5
… Age 4
… Age 3
… Age 2
… Age 1
… Obligatory cute baby pics

When the sun starts to dip towards the western horizon its rays filter through the trees in the park across the street. It is the most beautiful and magical moment of the day for me. Long trunk shadows reach across the grass, little dandelion puffs become nature’s own disco balls. All of creation worships the One who made it.

I’ve been blessed by this view for ten and a half years now. A new view awaits me next month, one that involves cottonwoods that rustle gently in the evening breezes.

For those who are interested in such things, my own little creative space on the world wide web will remain the View from the Prairie Box. The title has become as much a part of me as my own name, and really, fields of corn and prairie grasses are never too far away when you live in this city. The Box itself will change in order to accommodate a growing family with growing needs. Oh goodness, changes are afoot. I’m a girl who enjoys routine and the safety of a known life, but God is calling us to something new and different. Here we go.