Today I spent the bulk of the day going through the kids’ rooms, donating, throwing things away, and taking a walk down memory lane.
What struck me most wasn’t the grief over packing everything up and leaving France, but donating things my kids use to love because they are now too old for such things.
No more Legos. There was a day I couldn’t imagine a house without those foot-stubbing engineered pieces of plastic.
No more Barbies. Or Barbie stuff. No more baby beds. No more dress up clothes.
My kids are growing up and it’s happening shockingly fast.
There’s a heap of donations in our quasi-hallway that I have to step over to walk into their rooms or go to the bathroom. Bags and boxes of remnants of another life.
But isn’t that life? A series of moving ons? Tiny pockets of grief for what once was mixed with huge doses of anticipation for what lies ahead? I feel that way about France too. We move on, but we grieve. We remember the past fondly. But we look forward to the surprising adventure God has laid before us.
I’m older than I was when I moved to France. My kids are too. We all have things we leave behind. But I pray, with childlike wonder, we’d face the future with hope and peace and joy and holy anticipation.