F-F-F-Fears and Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

I’ve made some rather startling discoveries about myself during this whole process of discerning Bob’s call to the ministry. Isn’t it always interesting when you think you know so much about yourself, and then you discover, given certain circumstances, that nope, you are just as clueless about the real you as that stranger sitting across from you on the subway? As a matter of fact, he may even know you better, if he assumes certain traits of all human beings, those that six months ago you would have hotly contested were not traits of yours.

I don’t mind too much when my discoveries turn out to be good ones, when, for instance, I find I was wrong to think I’m not the sort of person who will say, “What do you mean? That’s not a square. It’s a triangle,” when everyone else in the group is calling a three-sided, closed figure a square. I like discovering I’m not a sheep who just follows the crowd the way I generally assume I am. I like knowing I’d probably be the neighbor who would call the police if I heard Kitty Genovese screaming.

But the discoveries I’ve made during this process haven’t been such noble ones. For instance, I’ve discovered I’m terrified of leaving my comfort zone. Me. The cheerleader who’s favorite line for all her friends is, “Rah! Rah! Change is good!” (I guess that means I’m also discovering I’m one of those awful people, full of advice for others she never follows herself.) I’m the one who’s always looking at others with that oh-so-critical eye, thinking, “How can she possibly still be living there/with that loser/sticking it out at that dead-end job? Isn’t she bored/frustrated to tears? She should move/kick him out/find something that allows her to use all her great talents.”

I’m the one who never understood how my parents could have lived in the same house for 24 years, leaving it occasionally for stints in other places but always coming back. I was especially amazed by my mother, the diplomat’s daughter, who’d lived in all kinds of exciting cities all over the world before she was married. Not that I would have relished moving around as a child. Switching schools every so often was hard enough without also being uprooted. My little judgmental mind was very good at ignoring this fact, though, when it was sitting back, deciding what boring lives my parents lived and vowing never to fall into such a trap.

My parents have since made up for their years of stagnation, having moved three times since I graduated from college. Meanwhile, I, the one who was going to move every five years or so, the one who wanted as many different living experiences in this short life as she could get, have been living in Connecticut for nearly twenty years. Granted, I lived in many different apartments with many different roommates during the first seven of those years, but this July 1st will mark twelve years of living in this one house. My fourteen-year-old self is looking at me with utter disdain. Not only have I let this happen, but I don’t seem overly eager to rectify the situation.

I’m not looking at the opportunity to move as a great new beginning, my next big adventure in life. Instead, I’m clinging to things I never thought were all that important. I like the fact I know where everything is here. I like my work-day routine, in which I spend half the day upstairs and half the day down. I like the way we’ve let nature take over and let our yard grow mostly wild, despite curious looks from neighbors (looks I used to find embarrassing, constantly feeling the need to explain we’re environmentalists). And then there are the things I know are important: I adore all my friends in Connecticut and nearby New York. I love living on a quiet, dead-end street. I love, love, love New England with its picturesque towns, gentle mountains and fabulous shorelines, as well as its winters. If we’re going to move, it’s supposed to be somewhere else in New England, preferably Maine.

There we have it: the queen of change is afraid of change, so afraid she was willing to let her husband turn down a job that was practically custom-made for him, so she could stay, if not in the same house, at least on familiar turf. That’s not going to happen, though. Bob is scared, too, but we both realize fears are never a good reason to pass up a wonderful opportunity. We’ve made a decision. We’re moving to Pennsylvania.

Guess what. I’ll eventually know where everything is there, too (and I’ll have the fun of making those discoveries). I’ll settle into a new work routine. I’ll make new friends, and all my wonderful friends from Connecticut and New York can easily come visit, as it’s not that far away. We’ll have plenty of room for guests. My fourteen-year-old self has already packed up her room into the moving van and tells me she’ll be waiting to show me the ropes when we follow her in the fall.

Meanwhile, bear with me, please, as I deal with all my anxieties and fears over the next few months. Like, for example: “Ohmigod! What are we going to do with twelve years’ worth of accumulated junk?!”