…the bigger move

Last weekend, we made a bigger move. Before we left Minnesota, I described moving across the country as “a big move.” Since we live in Texas now, I guess I should call it “a bigger move,” because everything’s bigger in Texas.

It’s not totally true, though. Our apartment is smaller, so we have a teetering stack of boxes in the corner of the room. Our apartment building is bigger, though; we’re on the seventh floor and it makes the McDonald’s drive-thru line look like toy cars. The thunderstorms (of which we have experienced two in the first week) are not necessarily bigger, since they last only about half an hour. However, the lightning audibly rips through the sky before the thunder rattles the succulent pots on the windowsill, which is bigger.

Overall, it’s probably too soon to tell if everything in Texas really is bigger. Right now it’s just different. Some days it’s a neutral different, where we don’t really remember our last home is about 1,000 miles away. The grocery stores are different, but they still sell Hidden Valley ranch and Whole Foods still has good avocados, so it’s fine. Traffic is different, because the speed limit seems to be whatever the road name is – Highway 75 means 75 miles per hour; I’m honestly nervous to drive on Interstate 345 if the logic carries. The weather is different, if only because the heat is so unrelenting you eventually cede to the annoying tackiness of sweat on your back just to keep the electric bill only mildly horrific.

Other days it’s sad different. Our best friends are a long day’s drive away. The hole-in-the-wall places we grew to love will likely never notice the lack of our patronage.  Our church family will keep growing and doing incredible things, and we will support them with full hearts from a long way away. It’s hard to stay connected when culture and time separate you. The go-to date night places shuffled to old memories, and familiar neighborhoods will change before we ever get the chance to wander them again.

Hopefully with more days here it will be exciting different. After 952 miles in a U-Haul (at a maddening 9 miles per gallon), some people would say our life is in Texas. We have jobs and schedules and a checklist of all the local taco shops we want to visit. Yet it will always be different. We moved so I could attend Dallas Theological Seminary in person (which the Coronavirus pandemic threatens). I got a job with a Jesus-loving nonprofit, which feels different on every level from any other job. The seams of our new city are bursting with possibilities and the adventures will be memories we could tell our grandkids someday. Plus, when winter comes we can wear shorts and not shovel snow.

So that’s where I’m trying to settle – in a state of acknowledging the fear and sadness with focus on the potential and purpose. We will make new friends as we hold on to the relationships we cultivated in Minnesota. We will find a new grocery store with its own fuel rewards program. We will get connected at a church with worldwide impact and local energy. We will settle into the warmth of the seventh floor as we adjust to life where things are always supposed to be bigger. After all, we moved with big dreams in our heads.

On the days it’s hard to see the purpose, I hope we remember the truth of lyrics in Social Club’s Enough. I listened to the album a few times as I glided the 20 foot truck of stuff through five states. The chorus sings a reminder:

I was born to walk through the fire; I was made to run through these flames.
Even when I’m broken and tired, You are enough.

God is enough, even when we feel broken and tired. The days we miss Minnesota and our families and the cheese curds during The Tavern Grill’s Happy Hour so much it hurts, I will rest in the purpose we have in Texas. One line in the song gives me a sly grin every time I play it out.

Nobody ever changed the world by playing it safe; when you’re afraid’s the only time that a man can be brave.

God didn’t say “Go to Texas because it’s all planned out.” He didn’t promise we would understand the process. He whispered in our hearts, “Go. Be brave, little ones.”