After a week of sunshine bouncing off our freshly painted white walls, it's storming out, loud and rumbling and causing the lights to flicker every couple of minutes like a campfire ghost story. There's a window at the top of our high ceiling-ed kitchen, providing the most deliciously eerie view of the tops of the trees swaying between grey clouds.
It's been hard to find ourselves in the new rhythms of living in this house, this city. But I've moved enough times to know that's normal, and that it's okay to feel a little off-balance even in our dream home.
I remember working at Anthropologie years ago, a young woman coming in, eyes wide and anxious, telling me that she had just moved from the midwest, and had unpacked all of her boxes without any luck in uncovering her flowered spoon rest. "I know it sounds crazy," she said, "but it just doesn't feel like home without my spoon rest. And I really need this place to feel like home, you know? So can you show me where the spoon rests are?"
I totally get it, that feeling of being in a foreign environment and needing some tangible evidence of home to feel like yourself. I think my "spoon rest" is less the physical items (though I would have cried if someone had misplaced my copper tea pot), and more the routines that make me feel like life has some sort of order: writing, walks with Jesus, making pictures when the light's falling through the windows a certain way. So I've been working those in slowly, in between work and emails, and the Lord is already showing up in a hundred and one ways, showing us that this is exactly where we're meant to be.