We’ve been in Indiana for 8 months now. After 3 months here I tried to write this reflection of what our last corporate worship service was like in Texas. I didn’t get very far. I tried again in August. I ended up re-reading what I had previously written, closed my computer, then had to walk away. 

Even now my attempt feels weak. It’s like when you wake up from an intense dream with a sort of rush. When you try to remember the dream it starts to drift from you instantly, leaving you grasping at it like holding water in your hands. I feel like my words come across the same way when kind people ask, “How is Indy treating you since leaving Texas?” 

Nonetheless, here are some reflections I can discern, even though I feel like I am only seeing the back of them while moving through a busy crowd—leaving Texas for Indy was the most painful movement I have ever known. Leaving a bad situation is hard, but there is a relief of burden that immediately acts as a salve. But to be sent from a thriving, healthy, church? To leave behind both sides of our families? The friendships? Taking on new everything? Maybe these are more for my processing purposes. . . 

The false hope

There was a false hope that crept in, despite my awareness of it. In our last weeks in Texas it became easy to believe that current struggles would no longer be an issue once we moved. Everything from social dynamics to sin issues we each face to habits a person would love to be rid of. It goes hand in hand with the Monday syndrome—you know the one where you are convicted about your lack of exercise or abundance of eating but it’s already Thursday. . . it makes so much more sense to do something about it on Monday. 

We can give our future selves too much credit to be the best version of us possible. Turns out, sin and personal rhythms need no forwarding address. What’s even more disillusioning is realizing the problem was you all along, not the other person or where you lived or what wasn’t once available. 

But God is so patient with us. Psalm 18:35 says, “...Your gentleness made me great.” I’m still turning this one over in my mind. (Actually there are several Psalms that I have read anew these past few months.) But even just meditating on God’s gentleness draws out repentance and shuts the door on shame.

The people

Oof. This is where I falter. Thinking about all the people. 

Our final night in Texas was spent with 3 families we had done a lot of life with. They came after our final Sunday at church where Clint was ordained, and the elders laid hands on us to send us North.  These 3 families came to help us load the moving truck and close down the house. 

We laughed so hard, enjoyed an incredibly odd assortment of what our fridge and pantry had left to offer, and stayed up late, pretending our 30 and 40 year old selves wouldn’t betray us the next day. Our evening ended with all 11 of our children on and around a mattress on the floor watching the LEGO movie while the adults sat on the front porch under the stars. 

We were in a circle, sitting on whatever didn’t fit in the moving truck, sharing another odd assortment of drinks left in the barn fridge. I don’t even know the line of conversation, probably something glorious and non-productive, but my friend Janie got out her phone to use as a flashlight to read from a book she was about to gift us: Every Moment Holy. She read “A Liturgy for Leavings.” 

“Thank you, O God, 

For the mercy and the beauty

Incarnated in the words and acts of these

Your people, extended one toward another.

It is no accident that we were born in the same

Epoch, and that our stories have twined in this

Time and in this place. . . 

Friends and saints and fellow pilgrims,

We part now in the confidence that in our

Diverging paths we walk the same road,

Fanning the same flame, and that in time

We will meet again in a fellowship forever

Unbroken. . .”

That night was so incredibly holy—special things come and go weekly, but holiness perseveres. That’s who we were surrounded by in Texas. Holy people who show up for your life and don't bring qualifiers or shy attempts at accountability. If you put up walls, they find a taller ladder. These are the kind of people who remind you to endure; who encourage your happy and mournful tears; who turn ordinary dinners into extraordinary events through good wine and even better conversation. 

These are the kind of people who cry while packing your minivan with as many plants that will fit. The ones who write notes to your future self because they know you will need encouragement when the sun hides itself for days on end. These are the ones who love God too much to let you stay. 

Ultimately we know God will continue to be faithful in sustaining relationships and forging new ones. That’s easy to say here. But it’s always been about the people. And before anyone thinks I’m ready to surrender my Midwest status for another shot in the Republic of Texas, I couldn't imagine life without the people in our new context. It’s baffling. This is where I feel like I really lose my final grip on that dream I was trying to remember. 

In a very short amount of time in Indiana, God has brought incredible saints to our front door to welcome, love, accept, walk with, dine with, and pour out our hearts to. Yes, the frontload of the lack of familiarity and history is hard. It’s a lot of the same conversations of introductions and how did you end up in Zionsville, Indiana?! But with some, that is fading into more intimate and candid relationships. We’re putting ourselves out there and inviting others in—not to recreate or replace Texas, but to be obedient here. 

And this obedience has proved fruitful in ways we could not have thought nor would have believed. Young adults taking the girls for the night so we can have an evening to ourselves; countless shared meals around dining tables and living rooms; gathering with women to trade recipes and kitchen tips; the exchanging of books and conversations of what we’re reading and listening to; and the upcoming plans of ski trips, ice fishing, conferences, building renovations—it’s humbling and exciting and hopeful to be a part of it all. 

The Lord

Throughout our entire marriage I’ve prayed that God would grant Clint a full-time worship position at a church. If you’ve ever had the privilege of being under his leadership in corporate worship you would understand my prayer. He’s built for it. God answered this prayer in a way I never would have asked for, and now I would never want it any different. It’s mysterious and inexplicable, despite all my previous words and attempts. 

Psalm 113 says, “Who is like the LORD our God, seated on high?” This is as far as I can get in my prayer of thankfulness to God. From the grand sweeping narrative of the redemptive history of Christ to the tiny details of suburban life in Indy. . . He is a good God who pays attention to us. 

I love Texas, and I miss it every day. I also love Indiana, and I’ll miss it when we travel back to Texas this week for Christmas. It still feels senseless to me. On a walk with a new, dear friend I told her my anguish of split affections. She told me very simply, “Kate, it can be both/and.” Can you hear the exhale after that? Because I can still feel it. But if I sound upside down or foggy or scattered it’s because I am! Maybe a year from now I’ll compose something to bounce a quarter off of. 

Pending that day—this is how I am landing all these thoughts and reflections and mixed emotions. When we moved here God gave us a phrase from dear friends who made this same move nearly 10 years ago: Christ is home.

I can be homesick for Texas and for Indiana simultaneously, because ultimately I am homesick for Christ and being united with Him for eternity. Until then, we will continue to be faithful to the people and work He has gloriously chosen to unite us to. . . even if they smirk when we say y’all and wear too many layers on a fair day.