Laying the Foundation
Over the last few months, my life has undergone a major overhaul. My husband accepted a new job out of state, moving into an apartment near his new work, while I stayed behind in our old house in Mississippi. This led to months of grueling house hunting, back-and-forth trips, and countless discussions as we tried to agree on a home. After five months of searching—and earning the prize for the most homes toured with the most patient real estate agents in history—we finally made an offer on a house, and it was accepted. But even in the weeks leading up to the move, before the packing started, I felt it: this wasn’t just about a new house. It was about stepping into something new, a season that would stretch me in ways I hadn’t expected, full of surprises, challenges, and opportunities to grow. With the New Year approaching, it seemed fitting that this season would push me to leave behind the familiar and step into the unknown.
Even though I knew the move was necessary for the next chapter of my life, I was still apprehensive. Actually, that’s an understatement. To be frank, I was gutted. Even after we found a house we both liked, I couldn’t shake the knot in my stomach. I was leaving my family behind, saying goodbye to familiar streets, friends, and the little routines that had become home. Moving day was coming whether I was ready or not, and the knot in my stomach only tightened.
In spite of how I felt, we had a solid plan for moving day: we scheduled the 5 star rated movers, the closing and final walkthrough were set, and the sellers were on track with the repairs we requested. On paper, everything seemed under control—until it wasn’t
On moving day, I frantically packed “the crap we’ll deal with later” box, knowing the movers were already on their way. I planned to head to the new house while my husband stayed behind in Mississippi to supervise the movers, joining me once everything was loaded onto the truck. Once the packing was done, I turned my attention to our cats, wrangling three angry felines into their carriers for the two-and-a-half-hour drive to our new home. It was a solid plan, and for a moment, things seemed under control.
The movers hadn’t arrived yet, but I decided to hit the road to Alabama with the three yowling cat carriers scattered across the back of our Subaru Outback, wedged among a monumental pile of items I insisted on moving myself. The car was packed to the gills. At first, the calmest cat seemed fine, but gradually he became unhinged. Without warning, he let out a shriek, followed by frantic cage rattling. Silence. Shriek. Rattle. Each round left me more frazzled than the last. Soon, the others joined in waves. I briefly considered taking them to the vet for something to take the edge off, but by that point, it was too late. Instead, I was the one who needed a tranquilizer. My nerves were shot—and I still had miles to go
About an hour into my drive, hubby called. The movers weren’t there yet. Apparently, there was an issue with the moving truck at the state line. This made no sense. They weren’t crossing Checkpoint Charlie into East Berlin for Heaven’s sake—this was the Mississippi-Alabama line. Hubby said he’d call back when he knew more.
The cats and I soldiered on in spite of the shrieking. We were only about five minutes from the house, and I felt relief knowing I could soon let them out of their carriers into the safety of the garage and finally calm the chaos. I also knew the movers would be joining us at the new house, which gave me a fragile sense of confidence that everything was still on track
Then, out of nowhere, my husband’s cat went ballistic. He scratched frantically. I tried to soothe him with a soft voice. He was inconsolable. Then it hit me. An undeniable, assault-on-the-nose smell permeated the entire car. The worst I’ve ever encountered. I froze. My usually dignified cat had held on as long as he could. He had tried to warn me. If only he had waited a few more minutes. I was horrified. Completely, utterly horrified.
We still had a mile to go, the smell growing stronger with every passing second. I drove faster, silently praying that what he had done in his carrier would stay put and not end up on the seat. The road curved and dipped, and finally, we turned onto the street, then up the long driveway to the new house. My heart was racing. I pulled into the garage and closed the door behind me, feeling a mix of relief and dread. I freed the cat from his funky carrier. He let out a deep, throaty growl, as if I alone were responsible for the entire ordeal. I shook my head, carried the carrier to the backyard with two fingers, dropped it unceremoniously, and went back to release the rest of the brood. Then I made a quick call to hubby to check on the status, my nerves frayed but still soldiering on.
He answered in a huff. The movers hadn’t shown up at all! Apparently, they couldn’t get through Checkpoint Charlie—yes, the Mississippi-Alabama state line—because of some mysterious truck issue and were forced to leave everything at the state line. A replacement truck was scheduled for the next day. The next day!
Our carefully laid plan was now in pieces. Hubby would drive to Alabama to meet me at the new house. We’d unload his car together, then both of us would have to sleep at his apartment in the city for the night. The following day, he would return to Mississippi to meet the movers, while I stayed behind at the new house, waiting, unpacking, and trying not to lose my mind.
The next morning, hubby headed back to Mississippi to meet the movers at the old house, while I drove 40 minutes to the new place. I unpacked as much as I could and tried to stay patient, knowing the movers were still on their way. They finally called that they were en route—but didn’t reach the old house until nearly noon. Packing and loading dragged on, and by mid-afternoon, hubby called with an update
“Do you remember how we got the couch in the front door?”
“Take the feet off, right?”
“Yeah, but they don’t have the tool.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I’m going to see if I can find one.”
I couldn’t believe they didn’t even have the couch loaded. This was getting more ridiculous as time passed by.
Frustrated, I waited, unpacked, broke down boxes, and even heated up some soup my mom had made before we left. Later he called back. “We couldn’t find the tool, but we got it moved anyway. We’re on our way. They just have to make a quick stop to pick up the other truck at the state line.”
“Wait… you’re still at the old house? How is this even happening?”
So I patiently rearranged things. Contemplated paint colors, checked on the cats…did what I could and waited. After an hour of this I got bored and tired of pacing. I had no real place to sit, so I perched on the fireplace hearth and started counting the stones beneath me. One…two…three…trying to convince myself that keeping track of something, anything, would make the waiting feel productive. Somewhere around stone twenty, I realized I might actually be losing my mind.
Just as I was beginning to question my life choices, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway snapped me back to the present. Hubby had finally arrived, exhausted from all the driving. We sprang into action, unloaded his car, and then settled in to wait for the movers. We had a snack, talked about paint colors… and still, no movers. He called them again. Their answer? “Ten minutes away!”
Finally, at approximately 8:30 pm, the movers finally rolled into our driveway. I was equal parts livid and relieved, so I let it go and jumped into directing box traffic like a drill sergeant. The movers were nice kids, and none of this was their fault—but at this point, I didn’t care. I just wanted my stuff inside. They worked quickly, and by 11 pm the truck was finally empty. Praise the Lord. We settled up, waved them off, and watched them disappear down the long, dark driveway, while my husband lingered outside, trying to make sure nothing else went sideways.
About 10 minutes later, he came bounding up the stairs, clearly frustrated.
“They got the other truck stuck in the neighbor’s yard.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s so late. Don’t you want to just stay here and get up early for work?”
“Nope. I’ll help them, then head back to the apartment. It’s easier.”
“Why not just take leave like a normal person?”
“Don’t have enough leave. I have things to do.”
“Okay… well, I’m going to bed,” I said with a sigh and an eye roll.
I spent the first night in the new house on an unmade bed under a quilt, while my husband drove 40 minutes back to the city to get ready for work the next day. I was alone—exhausted, frustrated, and just a little grateful that, for now, the chaos had finally slowed..
I would love to say the days following the disastrous were calm and productive. However they were anything but. At some point, I stopped reacting, learned to accept the things I could not change, and prayed for the wisdom to know the difference. This is what it looked like:
- December 9: We moved.
- December 12: An out-of-state graduation and a work party in a different state. On the same day. Because why not.
- December 16: My mom fell—and the next day we found out she had broken her hip and needed surgery, so I packed up and rushed back home to help.
Meanwhile, my house became a rotating cast of characters: two HVAC technicians, a plumber, an electrician, and a handyman, all appearing at various intervals providing over-inflated estimates—except the handyman, who was the rock star. Thanks, Claude.
Exposing the Cracks
Through it all, my husband and I worked seamlessly together, supporting each other and attending to each other’s needs.
Okay, I’m lying.
There were odd moments of teamwork, sure—but also screaming, silent treatments, and sheer exhaustion. Our bodies and nerves were running on empty. The chaos revealed a few cracks: strained communication, frayed nerves, clashing expectations, and those moments when everything went sideways through no fault of our own.
The cracks were impossible to ignore. Like a house under stress, our lives have weak spots: communication that falls apart, expectations that collide, and times we simply couldn’t keep up. Not a disaster, but definitely a signal. A signal telling you where to shore things up, where to adjust, and where to try something new without losing your mind. Once the cracks were out in the open, we had a choice: ignore them, plaster over them, or actually do some work.
Repairing the Cracks
We chose the work—one messy, imperfect step at a time. Sometimes that meant pausing mid-argument to actually listen instead of yelling louder. Sometimes it meant letting go of plans that were never going to survive the day. And sometimes it meant laughing at the absurdity of it all. If you can’t laugh while three cats are screaming in the back of a Subaru and movers stuck at the state line, what can you do?
Bit by bit, the chaos taught us something. We learned where to fix things, where to bend, and how to live with the cracks. They didn’t disappear, but we got better at noticing them and handling them. Stronger, a little smarter, ready for whatever comes next. Do we still deal with the cracks? Of course and we always will. They pop up when you least expect them. But just like any house, we are a work in progress, getting better over time. And as we learned to navigate the cracks, a new perspective began to emerge, one that made the next season feel manageable, if still messy.
Walking in Newness
Standing in the new house, boxes half unpacked, I realized how crazy all this was. Life doesn’t give you perfect moves. It gives you chaos, stress, and cracks. But it also gives you new stuff: new towns, new jobs, new relationships, and you just have to step into it, even when nothing is perfect.
With the New Year coming, it’s impossible not to think about what’s behind and what’s ahead. During the move, I hesitated. I worried about all the things I was leaving behind. I had a plan for the move that went completely sideways. But even in the midst of lost trucks and stinky cats, God kept nudging me: step into the newness. Trust me. Do the next thing.
The cracks weren’t just flaws. They were chances to fix what needed fixing, adjust what wasn’t working, and strengthen what mattered. It’s not neat. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t end. But if you pay attention and actually do the work, you start walking in the newness that’s been waiting for you. Messy, imperfect, and completely worth it.
Coming up: Walking in the Newness of Life Series
The move taught me a lot, but it’s only the beginning. Next, we’ll see how God prunes away what isn’t real in us and reveals who we are meant to be as New Creations . And finally, we’ll talk about what walking in that newness looks like in daily life. Stay tuned—it gets good.
Leave a Reply