Moving to the Moon

March 28, 2014

I have this memory. Or at least flashes of a memory. The not-quite-sure-it-was-real-but-pretty-sure-it-was sort of flashes of memory. A song memory really. A song that said, “I want to move to the moon.” I don’t remember much else about it, except that line and something about a red balloon.

Sometimes that song- or that line of that song- floats to the surface of my mind in particular seasons. Usually seasons where, yes… I want to move to the moon. In fact, I’ve said that to my husband several times the last few weeks. And I’m pretty sure I almost meant it.

The worry about the world I am leaving my child. The place he is growing up.Sometimes this feeling, this sense, this heaviness falls off the shelf in my soul where I usually keep it, the heaviness rests, weighted and aching, in the pit of my stomach. The questions begin to swirl in my head. The anxieties. The fears. 

The worry about the world I am leaving my child. The place he is growing up.

The fears about the people I love most and the people I have chosen to throw my weight behind.

The aching to find Jesus, find Jesus, find Jesus in all the anger and animosity around me.

I want so badly to have my son grow up in a place where he knows the grace of God. Where he sees the wonder of Jesus around him. Where he sees his fellow friends of Jesus learning to live and love together. Where differences are not hated so deeply and misunderstandings are not reasons to break companionship. Where he knows and loves people who see the world differently and where he is loved by those people the same. And he is not afraid of them.

Finding a place to belong is hard. And so there are days, moments, seasons, when I want to take my family, maybe some friends, and move… leave… find that place of peace. Where anxieties are lessened by the hugs of friends. Where the misunderstandings are waved away by love. Where the differences are celebrated and commitment to walk together with Jesus matters greatly. All with the gentleness that comes from deeper union with Christ. Love. Just love.

And then it comes, when I am at my worst moments… sitting in my car, drips of tears on my shirt, a heart so filled with ache and longing it feels paralyzed, it comes. The voice of God. The words of God, breathing peace that doesn’t make sense. Breathing words that lift the weightiness. Meeting me in my broken. Words. “Do not worry.” Words. “I have overcome.” Words. “What I begin, I will finish.” Words. “Peace…”

Faithful words of my Savior watering my shattered, battle-weary soul.

And I am left to choose. To choose to live into these sweet hard words. Or to continue in the frantic furry of my fears.

So I stop. I stop mentally packing for the moon. I stop frantically clutching to the few things I have, releasing my grip. I stop and attempt again to lay down in the hands of a God who loves me, and who hasn’t forgotten what he began, what he is doing, and what he is about.

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