The process.

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What exactly is the process?

It’s gathering all the stuff you’ve owned for the last 20 years, and separating it all into piles, putting together boxes, taping boxes closed, endless trips to the storage unit, lack of sleep, loss of appetite, coffee runs at 12am, sleeping on the floor because your bed is long packed away, wearing the same outfit for 4 days, unwashed hair, more trips to the storage unit, sleepless nights staring at the ceiling and wondering what’s going to happen, seeing an empty room and wanting to cry because you suddenly realize that you will be closing the door to the place you’ve called home for you’re entire life, it’s getting in the car with the last of your things and saying goodbye to all comfort and familiarity.

Forever.

The day I found out we was moving, I was like, “Who cares? I feel like this house is haunted anyway”. I shrugged it off so fast that I had no idea exactly how fast that day was coming up. We had a month before we had to move out, but myself being a lazy slacker, I put everything to the last week. That made cram time especially stressful, as you can guess.

During the last week of packing, I felt myself beginning to feel uneasy about leaving. I’ve lived in that house my entire life, after all. All my memories were held in that house. I felt like I would leave them all behind. I didn’t want to make any new memories in a new place. We’ve moved to my grandparents house for a little while, but still. This suddenly meant less privacy, less bathroom space, and now that my sister, my mom and I are now sharing a room, less personal space. How exciting, right?

Then, the dreaded day came. I was more miserable than ever, because it suddenly hit me; this was actually happening. This was real life. I had the last of my things packed, and before I knew it, I was standing in the middle of my empty bedroom, the echos surrounding me. This place had gone through many changes. I was moving out. This was happening, right now. That was the last time I would step into that room, and the last time I would step foot in that house I called, “home”.

This was the first morning I woke up in the new temporary place. I still don’t know how I feel just yet. I feel like I’m intruding in on my grandparents’ life. I shouldn’t eat their food. I miss my house, I miss my comforting silence.

So many things are going through my mind right now. Most of them worries. I have many fears that I have to get over, moving being one of them. I have no idea what will be happening in the near future, and I’m terrified. But with all this scary inconsistency, I’m really thankful to have God behind me, and reminding me that my true home is wherever He is. My home here is temporary, and one day it will return to dust. I need to work on having faith in what He’s got planned, and I need to work on trusting Him. This process is going to grow me, I can feel it. But all I can do is trust in Him right now.

I don’t know how to end this so I’m gonna write a random word now. Avocado.

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3 thoughts on “The process.

  1. I vividly remember our last night at the last house and the final morning. The barreness was haunting…how could the place that housed so many important events be wiped clean? It was Philippians 3:20 which kept my head clear that this is all temporary residency until we arrive to claim our citizenship in heaven.

    Liked by 1 person

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