Roots
Moving is hard, period. It doesn't matter if you move up the street or across the country or even around the world. It's all hard. (I should know--I've done all three.) We've moved nine times in less than seven years. I used to love it. I would just start to get annoyed by one particular thing in our home, and then find out shortly after that we were moving. It worked. It was like a brand new canvas, erasing all the quirks of the previous house and giving me a clean slate to work with. But then one day two years ago, I wasn't excited any more. I wanted a home . I wanted to be able to enjoy a place without the next move looming over me. At the same time, I didn't know how to do that. Our entire marriage consisted of one move after another. We had never "settled in" or painted or made a place our own. It was scary. Right around this time, my Abba whispered to me that it was time to put down roots. A part of me wanted that security of a home,