Why We’re Moving Back

Why We’re Moving Back

Today, Father’s Day, seems the appropriate time to write that our family is moving back to Tennessee, because the reconciliation of family is what’s driving this return.

Before we moved to Wisconsin in November 2014, I stood in the carport with my parents and told them goodbye. I knew, because of the tension surrounding the move, that my family wouldn’t be out to visit us soon, and I sensed that distance between us, even as I sobbed against my father’s chest—his arms wrapped around me—and told him I was sorry for causing him pain.

Eight weeks later, on December 27^th 2014, my husband had emergency brain surgery to remove a rare, benign tumor. The grueling surgery was a success, as was his recovery, but I’ll never forget sitting in the van with my husband and two sick little girls as the tires spun in the snow-packed driveway.

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law were in their car on the road capping the lane—on their way back to Tennessee after spending three weeks taking care of us while my husband recovered—and that car braked as the driver and passenger tried to decide if they should come down and help us get to the pediatrician or if they should just . . . go.

They knew they couldn’t help, so they left. I watched them depart and felt such a gripping sense of insecurity and dread.

A few days later, my mom flew out to be with us. But she became ill about halfway through. I couldn’t take care of her, my husband, and two daughters, all of whom were recovering from their own illnesses. I was cracking, and I knew it. I’ll also never forget driving my mom back to the airport only to discover that we’d gotten the dates wrong: her flight left the next day.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t make that trip again. I wasn’t comfortable leaving my recovering husband in charge of our daughters as I’d done, so my mom and I decided to find a hotel near the airport, where she could stay until she left the next afternoon.

If you ever want to feel like the lousiest daughter in the world, try dropping your sick mother off at a hotel in the middle of the city where she knows no one. I sobbed and hugged her outside the door to her room. She, of course, told me it was going to be fun! That she could relax and watch movies and eat continental breakfast the next morning.

I continued to sob for about the first five minutes on the way back to our farm, and then I told myself to get a grip. That I had to make it home in one piece. When I finally arrived, my husband was tired and holding our crying infant.

I want to make it known that we had incredible help during that season. Our family and church family here in Wisconsin brought meals and loads of firewood that lasted us through the majority of the winter. We were supported on every side, which was beautiful and priceless.

But I ached for my parents, for grandparents to our girls, for my siblings and sisters-in-law and my best friend, who is like my sister. I love the people here, in Wisconsin, and yet I love my family, too.

About two months ago, my parents came to visit us, and I’m not sure why that visit was so crucial for this full circular journey of restoration, but it was. As my dad walked around our farm, as he accepted the decisions we’ve made, as he continued to love us despite them, I felt this love flood me for him, because I knew it hurt him to be here, but he remained—visible proof of unconditional acceptance that was so necessary for my own heart to heal.

I remember, one night during that healing week, coming downstairs and seeing my parents sitting on the couch. My mom was rubbing my dad’s feet as they talked over their day. It touched me to see this, and I recalled other, similar images while I was growing up, comparing those images to the one I viewed now: my dad’s hair had shaded to silver, my mom’s beautiful face had a few more lines, and yet they were the same.

They offered the same security as when I was a little girl—a security which I didn’t appreciate then, until I had little girls of my own. My eyes welled as my spirit swelled within me, and I walked over and kissed them goodnight before going up to bed with my husband, and that’s the moment I knew I wanted to move back to Tennessee.

I am not naïve. I understand that family relationships take work, and that some of the healing that has taken place over the past year and a half is because distance has allowed me to see everything more clearly, and to love with a more perfect love. But what this distance has also taught me is that I am willing to put in the time, for who knows how much time we have left? I took a crash-course in the fleetingness of time that first Wisconsin winter, and I know it’s a lesson that will always remain with me.

I want the messiness. I want the crying and the hugging and the interpersonal juggling act as we push deeper into understanding each other’s motivations and hearts and scars.

I want it all. That is why I am moving back.

I want my family.