Finally: A Blog About Moving, and About Moving On

As many of you know, I moved last week, and I have not blogged about it yet. Although a great opportunity for our entire family, the move required considerable mental adjustment for me. I normally blog about current events or those far removed in time, and these events are still unfolding.

The move meant leaving our idyllic retreat on Round Mountain, where the change of seasons and the change of weather were a delight of God's creation played out like cinema through the rear windows of our ridgetop home. It meant leaving the house we had built so carefully, with outlets in bizarre locations for our convenience -- and my roomy kitchen island that was, as Dan put it, actually more like a subcontinent -- perfect for feeding hordes of kids. We built it with everything the color of nature; the "color of dirt" philosophy suited us;  it was a casual, comfortable house.


It meant leaving our safe room, into which we had retreated last year after the tornado struck neighboring Vilonia, along with friends who became our housemates when the storm damaged their home. We all watched another storm approach from the dinner table that night. As the sky darkened and the wind picked up, their fearful eyes darted again and again to that view, until finally the sirens sounded and we all headed for shelter.  I was thankful to be able to share our "safe place" with them that night.

The move meant leaving the upstairs bonus room that been the "storm home" not only for that family, but for two others at various times, who were refugees from the kind of disaster that rips not houses, but lives apart.  We had more house than we could use, and they were lovely friends and guests.  I still recall, being less than a great cook, the night we received one such guest.  I felt like the shepherd boy from the poem about the manger in Bethlehem. "What can I give Him, poor as I am?"  No home baked comfort food at my house.  We broke out a can of chocolate icing and some spoons, sat at the kitchen table, and commiserated on the sorry state of things.  It is a nice memory.  The day he left our home, he left a can of icing on the subcontinent.

The move meant leaving the world's longest back porch, where, once or twice a year, my husband would convene until the wee hours with a few kindred males, to ceremonially strike a blow for Freedom From Being Told What To Do by Women while they discussed topics men talk about when women are not present. I would lie in bed and listen to the deep droning of their conversation, not really wanting to know its substance, but rather glad that my back porch could provide moonlight sanctuary for some very sweet men who needed to console one another without counsel from those of us with no y-chromosome.


Our change took me away from Conway Christian School. When we enrolled Emma at CCS in third grade, I did an unexpected but enjoyable "permanent substitute" teaching stint for the school. Administration and faculty encouraged me to complete my non-traditional licensure, and supported me from those early first days -- when no doubt I was more a poser than a professional -- through the seasoning of my methods and talents over seven years, transitioning me into a career I came to love at a place that consistently called students to critically seek a Godly perspective in every classroom endeavor. For the insight, encouragement, and call to excellence for me and my children, I will always be thankful.

The move meant leaving our church home since 1989.  They welcomed us as young people, mourned with us when we could not conceive a child, and wept twice when we miscarried. They rejoiced with us at the birth of Claire, and two years later, they celebrated again, as we were shocked to discover God was blessing us with twins. They fed our family when I was on bed rest, visited me and kept me company and regaled me with laughter in my confinement. When our pregnancy became extremely complicated, our church family kept vigil at St. Vincent when, after some days, we finally delivered Emma and Sarah at 30 weeks. Emma was to come home with us after ten weeks in the NICU. Sarah, however, would be buried at our family cemetery at the foot of Magazine Mountain, and our church family would surround us with loving arms and support us all the way to recovery. Over the years, the old ladies pinched our babies' cheeks and beat on their fat thighs.  Many taught our girls, encouraged them, supported them in their activities and their relationship with the Lord.  Our siblings and both sets of parents worship there still; although we are gone, we leave pieces of ourselves behind.

I make all these observations to say that, sitting here in my new house in Searcy, wondering what the Lord has in store for us, it occurs that the best memories I have of that house, and of my school, and of my church, all have to do with the idea of shelter.  Shelter from weather, from the storms of broken hearts, from the solitary devastation of loss, shelter for talents and children to grow.  And of one thing I'm certain:  shelter for God's people is not about a safe room built with hands.  It's something people build with their hearts.  And the Summers family can do that anywhere.