8/22/25 - Making Sense of It All

The chai latte is still perfect.  Thankfully, that’s the same.  The vanilla scone is new to me (adventure!) and it’s delicious.  But the thing that I noticed the most and that gave me the biggest smile when I returned to the Garden Café in Webster Groves, MO was the front door. 

It was wide open. 

The Garden Cafe: My favorite coffee shop in St. Louis.

Just like Claire and Jon’s door in Massachusetts whenever they were home.  And just like the lake house door in New Hampshire.  Wide open with no screen.  Open to whatever comes in.  Air and sunshine.  The breeze.  Energy.  Sounds. People.  Bugs.  Opportunities.  Opportunities that wouldn’t materialize if the door was closed. 

Claire and Jon’s open back door. I was so struck by this when I saw it the first time. Growing up, if our door was open, the screen door was always closed to stop the bugs from coming in.

I want to live with my door open.  I want to be open.  I’ve learned in the last nine months that I’m not as open as I thought I was.  (And probably still not as open as I think I am right now!)  I’ve also learned that the best laid plans can go horribly awry and end up being equal parts ‘heartbreaking’ and ‘gift basket’ all at the same time. 

And that’s why this experience (and this transition) has been so damn confusing. 

*Deep breath of cozy St. Louis coffeehouse atmosphere* 

Hi, Friends.  I’ve missed you.  A lot.  Missed talking to you and sharing what’s been happening.  Missed the peaceful, thoughtful state I sink into when I sit by myself with this silly computer and write out my thoughts. 

I tried to get into that serene place two days ago.  The day after Sid and Addie went back to school, I was ready to jump in and tell you everything….or so I thought.  But when I sat down at my new table at the Garden Café (I say “my” new table because I’m sitting here for the second time in three days so I suppose I’ve claimed it as “my spot”) my thoughts were so scattered that nothing was making sense—even to me.  So many tangents.  So many half-thoughts interrupted by other half-thoughts.  Everything required more context and more explanation.  My mind wanted to spill everything and let it all ooze out into a puddle of disorganized goo for you to poke a stick at.  But my spirit just wasn’t ready.  And, if I’m really honest, it still isn’t ready.  I’m still making sense of it myself.  How on earth can I explain it to you? 

Because of that experience I’ve decided that I’m not going to try to cram all of what happened into a neat and tidy blog post.  There’s just too much.  What happened was not at all tidy and neat.  It was messy and beautiful and tragic and fabulous and awful and hard and precious. 

It was life.  And boy, did we live.  We lived HARD.

And now we’re back and it feels like it’s really over. I had a good cry this morning.  And I had one yesterday.  I needed it.  They aren’t particularly fun.  (1.5 stars?)  I mean, honestly, who likes to cry?  It felt super sad and discouraging and dark when it was happening, but I know—as the wiser part of me knew in those real-time moments when the tears were exiting my eyes—that it was the physical and emotional cleanse I needed to get the day going.  By releasing the tears, I made space for the new ideas and plans I have for today and for this weekend.  I told Steve the other day that I feel like I’m functioning relatively normally on the outside (for me, anyway) but that I have a gallon-sized bucket of tears inside of me that’s probably about three quarters full and is ready to spill out whenever a tender moment presents itself.  Luckily, I know it’s a finite bucket of sadness—not one of those gutting “these tears feel like they will never end” buckets.  More of a logical awareness bucket, as in “I recognize that I have a certain amount of disappointment and grief over what happened and I need to physically purge all of that before I can fully heal and be ready for our next big adventure, whatever that may be.”  For me, there is a process of re-visiting and examining and reckoning and molding and framing and re-framing that is required for me to feel whole again.

So fitting. This is the neon sign that hangs in the living room of the Airbnb we are renting for the next six months.

Let’s face it: there are a myriad of ways we (you, me, my family, etc.) could look at our experience over the last nine months.  Some say it was a failure, a heartbreaking disappointment.  Some an adventure on top of an adventure on top of an adventure.  Some say a tremendous success in that we followed what we wanted and stayed true to ourselves every step of the way.  Some say a unique life opportunity.  Some a divine lesson in perseverance.  Some a waste of time and a told-ya-so lesson in “just stay home.”  It’s a bit of a Rorschach test in that what you see likely offers profound insight into your perspective on life.  I, personally, think of our experience in all of those ways and many more.  It’s tremendously complicated.  Lots of layers.  Truthfully, there’s too much to make sense of it all at one time.  And I don’t begin to know how to make sense of it all.

Thankfully, I have great parents and a dad full of dad-isms.  One of them is “when you don’t know where to start, just start.”  You’ll figure out where to go next.  It’s crazy how many times I have used that phrase—actually spoken the words aloud—to begin a new project or a process.  I jump in and I realize I’m on Step Four.  I need to do three other tasks to tie up with where I initially started.  And then I begin again on what I now believe is Step One.

And so today….I begin again. 

The other day I was trying to fit EVERYTHING from the last few months into a cute, quaint blog post.  It was a disaster.  So, to begin again…

I’m going to write a book. 

A few of you had suggested this to me (Michelle!) over the course of this blog and I gave the idea a bit of surface attention in a “sure, that would be a cool thing to do,” but I don’t know that I took the idea seriously.  However, when we were in New Hampshire with our new boat friends a few weeks ago, Steve and I were recounting a few of the demoralizing experiences we had had before we met their family in the Bahamas.  And the shame and simultaneous pride that we felt about our decision to sell the boat and return to St. Louis.  At one point, Sarah looked at me very seriously and said, “that’s your book.  That’s what you need to write about.  Think about all of the people who have turned around and felt shame even though it was probably the right and even harder thing to do.  Write for them.”

I’ve since come to realize that what would help me, personally, process our full experience, is to start at the very beginning — how did this grand adventure come to be? — and to finish wherever we are in our proverbial story, wherever that is in time, whenever I finish the book.

*chuckle* So for the four of you (Steve*, Mom, Dad and Michelle) who will actually eventually read this currently unwritten book, that’s a preview of what it’ll be about. (*Steve, your obligatory endless readings of my drafts will count as “reading it” for you. 😊)

So that’s that.  I’m going to write a book. 

*Nervous gulp* Okay, uh, I guess that’s out there now.  *Pause*   Moving on…

If you’re still reading this, there are a few other things I’d like to cover:

1)      Please be patient with us.  We are juggling a lot these days: moving into a new temporary house, getting a new (new-to-me) car, lots of very intimidating bills, back to school/work stuff, selling the boat, repairs at our real house that we’re renting, repairs at our Airbnb, getting the kids involved in brand new activities, actually following a schedule/calendar, etc.   It’s A LOT and all four of our brains are completely on overload.  As a result, we are moving and processing very slowly these days.  Steve and I were at the middle school parent orientation the other day and were surrounded by tons of parents whose faces we know so well (and love!) but whose names were simply not surfacing in our heads.  It was very inwardly uncomfortable and I’m really hoping that no one noticed.  Anyway, thanks in advance for your patience (and if you want to re-introduce yourself to be on the safe side, that would be great!). 

On that same note, I know that YOU, my dear friends, are also dealing with a lot in YOUR lives.  I promise to be patient with you as well and if you need an ear these days, please (!) call.  I always have a hug for you if you need it. 

2)      If you show me any sort of compassion, I may cry on you.  Don’t panic.  Just let it pass.  (Or just don’t show me compassion, right?  I mean, choose your own adventure. 😊)

3)      We bought a convertible.  I absolutely love the feel of the wind on my face and through my hair but it’s a bit flashy and I’m still getting comfortable with the flashiness.  Long story short, I’ve always wanted a convertible like my dad had when my brother and I were growing up and I needed a car and it was massively on sale and Steve and the kids loved it even though we will all collectively fit in it only for another five more minutes or so and, well………………..I chose joy.

Driving to school on the first day of school with the required first-day-of-school paper towels.

And finally….

4)      When we have run into people we know in St. Louis who have been following our story, there’s always a very understandable awkwardness because people don’t know what to say to us.  Heck, WE (!) don’t even know what we’d like you to say to us, so how should YOU know what to say?  An “I’m sorry” is full of sincerely appreciated compassion but also negates the invaluable and treasured joyful moments that came from our experience. “So happy you’re back!” is kind and feels good but it also skims over the pain and disappointment.  *Facepalm* It’s so confusing. 

For the record, whatever you say will be fine (we assume kindness).  That said, if you are looking for a suggestion, Steve and I talked about this and landed on a phrase that felt right.  Plus, when someone said it to us naturally after church the other day, it landed perfectly:

“It’s really good to see you.” 

That feels good.  Always.

More soon, Friends.  I dunno when, but I promise you that I’m going to start actively working on that book!  Big hugs to you!