Grief and Unasked Questions

Wow, I did not mean to quit writing for 2 1/2 years.

Well, we're in America. We moved to Tennessee shortly after returning to the States. It's definitely different from Massachusetts and was more of an adjustment than I had anticipated, but we're settling in. We've found an amazing church, formed some precious friendships, and Nick has started his own electrical business. My parents even bought a house just ten minutes from us. We've started our fourth year of homeschool and after struggling to find our groove (and honestly feeling like giving up quite often) in those four years, we're off to a fantastic start this year. All of the girls are taking dance classes. We still have our dog from South Africa and she's grown to be such a good girl and a real comfort to our family. Generally, life is good.

Grief is weird, though. Life is good. I'm not unhappy with it. I'm not looking to change it. But suddenly I can long for what's been lost. It happened a lot in the first year. Scrolling through photos, receiving a voice message from a friend in SA, or just thinking about the differences between our South African farm life and our Tennessee apartment life could bring me to tears (or sobs) quite often. Becoming more settled here and getting connected have helped a lot. The tears come less and less often. But the longing is so deep it can feel like a physical gap in my chest if it's uncovered. Mostly I try to keep it covered.

Three years ago I posted photos of our first trip out to the bush on Facebook. Today that "Memory" came up. I had shared how God had taken our lonely hearts and placed them into this family He had prepared for us. Those friends--and really all of our friends in SA--they became our family and some of the most precious people to us. Our times in the bush driving in an open vehicle exploring nature, or gathering on our neighbors' veranda in the crisp night air studying the Word together, or standing in the back of the bakkie crossing the farm and taking in everything from cover crops to sheep to mountains, or sitting in our friends' living room laughing and drinking cup after cup of Wooly's coffee: in moments like those, life felt so full that it might burst. And then, I suppose, it sort of did.

I try desperately to take the route of gratefulness. I look at the scattered pieces of that life, and they're beautiful. Those are pictures of my life and I can smile knowing that I hold those precious memories. But sometimes the smile feels fake. The memories start to feel like dreams. Sometimes I can't help but cry, wishing I could put them back together again.

It's really confusing and disconcerting, this ache. There are so many questions. Will any of those scattered pieces be put together again? Do I actually want them to be? What would that even look like? Why did it have to fall apart? Was I wrong to let my heart accept a longer assignment than was mine to take on? Why did it feel like it was meant to be longer? Why couldn't we just have mediocre friendships that would be easier to part with? Can I be the person in America that I was in South Africa? What am I supposed to do now?

I don't really have a great way to close this thought because it's remained open ended for me for the last 2 1/2 years. I haven't fully asked the questions and I surely haven't waited for the answers. Honestly, I can't figure out what I want the answers to be, so I can't decide what I'm hoping God will say, so for some reason that means I don't ask the questions. I really can't look down on the Old Testament Israelites for their cycle of witnessing miracles and then seeming to completely forget who God is. I have felt the most peace and joy when I have walked confidently in step with my LORD, so why do I hesitate to ask Him which way to turn or what those bumps in the road were about?

If you have cared enough to read this, thank you, and I would really appreciate your prayers for our whole family.