Saturday, November 12, 2016
Thanks to my dad, who believes in me, I've just hauled one of two trucks full of all our movables from the past into the future. In caravan with my still all-able dad, who drove the lead U-Haul, I've maneuvered this second immense and weighty vehicle along the Columbia, over the Blues, across the volcanic flats of Idaho's Treasure Valley into the long bowl of the Great Salt Lake and the Wasatch range.
What's next? This is week 61 of 78. I have to remind myself I'm still in the middle of a commitment to live with more intention, to serve. The young adult women of my church serve an eighteen-month mission -- and sixty-one weeks ago I thought I could do at least that much.
But I knew what was needed in my former home -- I knew how to speak to the people around me there -- I knew the language outside the words -- the pauses and important rhythms, the shibboleths, the code words, the panic buttons to avoid. I had listened for enough years that when it came time to persuade or encourage, the right words and the right approach and the right formation often came as if instinctively. I knew where to go for support and who to talk to. I don't know if I have the same luxuriously long stretch of a learning curve ahead of me here.
And this town doesn't have the same obvious needs.
How can anyone in this peaceful valley need me?
What can there possibly be for me to do?
But then what's a mission without a transfer?