I Will Trust

Saturday

It always happens in the most innocuous moments. At a brunch with a friend. In the middle of my workday.

This time was no different.

We were driving home after a birthday party at the beach when my husband got the call.

“Oh, really?” he said into his cell phone.

My heart quieted. I could hear it in his voice. There was a new job opportunity. I could almost smell the impending stench of a family relocation wafting into the car.

I could see the sparkle in his eyes as he hung up the phone and turned to face me.

“I don’t want to hear,” I said.

My response was rude. You see, we’ve been married for ten years. In that ten-year span, we have lived in five different places. My son  had been a resident of three different states by the time he turned three. Even the hint of another move exhausted me.

We currently live in the coastal South. My daughter was born here. My son is exuberant about his school. As a family, we enjoy exploring the local culture. We like the weather. The community. Even the rainy days. I thought we were loving it.

Not long ago, my husband and I agreed that we would do everything we could to stay.

His voice interrupted my thoughts. “The job sure is tempting,” he said, referring to the phone call.

Monday

Over the weekend, we had briefly discussed the possibilities. We didn’t talk much. With that one look in the car, I knew my husband wanted this new opportunity, this new move.

Everything within me felt dull.

My feelings, raw and feeble, felt scraped onto the floor.

But I reasoned that God was in control.

After all, we pray for favor in my husband’s job. We pray for direction. We pray that God will open and shut doors.

Who was I to stand in the way?

I yielded the decision to my husband, and he officially applied for the job on Monday.

Tuesday

 “Eenie meenie miney mo,” my son sang.

The problem: who would get to take a bath first.

The solution: after being told to figure it out themselves, my kindergartener and toddler put their trust in a children’s game to make the choice.

However, when my son realized in the middle of the song that he would not be chosen . . .

“Oops!” he cried.

My husband and I burst out laughing.

My toddler had trusted her big brother and the fairness of the game. Big brother, on the other hand, had lost the game he thought he could manipulate.

I was reminded of this as I wrestled with thoughts of moving.

I was pregnant when we moved to our current home. It was an unexpected move. We had only lived in our previous home for nine months, hardly enough time to unpack all our boxes.

The plan had always been to move back to the Midwest, where we had started our marriage. But then something happened.

We realized alligators weren’t that dangerous.

We saw the beauty of a sunset over the marshland grasses.

We found our niche in the local community.

I never asked to love this place God brought me to. But now I do. God will close the door to this new job opportunity, I feel sure.

Won’t he?

Shouldn’t he?

Am I trusting the process?

Oops.

Thursday

 Where I live, traffic is a part of my morning routine.

Too many cars. Not enough road. So many people trying to get to different places at the same time.

Thursday morning’s roads were worse than usual and echoed the traffic in my head.

All week long, my anxiety hemmed and hawed. Since my defense was feigning ignorance, I would have several hours of normalcy. Then something would remind me of our dilemma.

A possible move.

It wasn’t just the need to box mountains of our stuff that overwhelmed me. It was finding a new pediatrician, a new school, even a new grocery store. The idea of trying to find our place in a new community.

Then there were the goodbyes we’d have to say to treasured people and places.

My tears brimmed.

We had done this before, but it wasn’t making the process easier.

From the backseat, my daughter started singing, “Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

I could feel that gentle nudge from the Holy Spirit, the reminder of truth.

“Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

Even in the traffic.

“Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

Even in the waiting.

“Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

We were his “little children.” I could trust in a loving God.

Saturday

It was now a week since the idea of a new community had landed on our doorstep. I still wasn’t talking to my husband about it.

Why talk about it if we don’t even know if it’s going to happen?

But that night he forced me to sit down. He talked through his dreams.

My husband is a visionary. He sees the future, the big picture.

I am a dreamcatcher. I see all the details. And, oh, there were so many details.

That night, though, I was not catching his dream. The details swarmed and overwhelmed. I wondered what God wanted from us. I knew he loved us, but would he want us to go through all this?

Sunday

Like a balm, Sunday came, and I gimped to church.

God always brings truth to my situation like a blaring Las Vegas sign. This Sunday was no different. Our pastor brought the Word.

He preached about Joseph in the pit. And as he closed the service, he went through Psalm 23. I especially latched on to the familiar verse:

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me,” (Ps. 23:4 NIV).

But as my pastor pointed out, although I had said it so many times before, I had never really connected verse 4 with the verse that precedes it:

“He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake.”

God’s path might be through the valley, through the darkness. If he is guiding me along the “right paths” and I’m in the “darkest valley,” maybe God is the one leading me there.

Yes, a move would be scary and uncomfortable. However, it might be God’s leading. Wouldn’t he provide anything we might need?

I leaned in. I would trust.

 Monday

My husband expected to hear from the powers that be on Monday. I expected he’d call me right afterward. I tried not to check my phone every couple of minutes.

The phone rang.

I took a breath.

I let the anxiety settle.

I will trust.

Ashley Shannon is a wife, mother, and self-appointed adventure curator. As a lifelong learner, she enjoys exploring the coastal South where she lives and painting her experience of motherhood with words.

Photograph © JChad Madden, used with permission