Today is the sixteenth year anniversary of our move to Bainbridge Island. No one, other than our friend Linda who moved with us from Colorado, will remember this anniversary. As mothers, as women, we tend to be the keepers of memories and dates.

We recall the emotions that accompany events as quickly as our eyes view a photograph. Our heart is the life giving ballast that carries us across the decades of our lives. As a sailboat depends on it’s keel to keep from capsizing, we can hold the balance of our families’ well being with our hearts. If we are even keeled, it is helpful for everyone in the boat with us. We know the power of love and goodness that keeps a family afloat. It is astounding to recognize the power we have.
This is not new news. As women we know that the soil of our heart is the ground in which our family grows. One day we have an orderly garden without weeds or slugs and a few weeks later in our cycle, all we see is the fruit missing, which the raccoons and deer have devoured. The ballast is upended and the seas are frightful and dark. Once again I say, it is astounding to recognize the power we wield.
Sixteen years ago I remember our family in two cars and one truck driving down the street from our beloved home we built in Colorado. I recall the agony when neighbors poured into the street for one last goodbye. An unexpected wail of sorrow erupted out of my throat and frightened me and everyone else.
It was the longest drive down the most driven street of my life. Our oldest child drove alone in her car with fury that we were moving soon after she graduated from high school. The middle child was in my car, quiet with her feet on the back window as we listened to the same REM CD for two days.
My husband drove a U-haul truck filled with his books that were too heavy and expensive to put into the moving van. Our Australian terrier was perched on his lap and tried to jump out the window. The truck swerved and he almost hit another car. Our son sat next to his dad, unnerved by the near crash, and waved goodbye to his two best friends in the whole wide world with tears streaming down his cheeks. We were separated in our own grief as we made our way to the Puget Sound.
My ballast was missing and the awareness of tipping over was ever present. Nothing was in place. My heart ached and the words in my head said, “What are we doing here? Did we make the right decision?” When the moving van arrived we discovered the turns in the street were too tight for it to get to our house. Nothing was calm and stable. When we finally unloaded the truck to another truck, we had way too much furniture and stuff to fit into our home. Our garage was filled with things to get rid of for months and months. Everything seemed hard. Nothing seemed “level” and, actually “capsizing” sounded easier than staying afloat. It was as if the keel of my being was gone. I was a mess.
As I write today, I look out my window and the scene is oh, so different. When I look at my home, I am filled with gratitude and stability. The property that was barren is now filled with many trees and plantings that nourish our hearts. The marine air that sweeps in off the water and covers the sun for hours is not a problem as it used to be. The barking sea lions seem normal as I weed and water the flowers. Our friends are now here…nearby. The rootedness of our lives is strong and sweet.
I remember the seasickness of my soul and question of whether we would ever return to a quiet tide and the safe haven of a new shore. I look out at the beauty of my yard and I bless this odd journey. I can do so because of a heart of gratitude and the acceptance of care from others and God. It is not of my own doing.
For me, it sometimes takes a storm to remember what I am made of. By that, I do not mean being strong and moving on. What I have had to learn to do is speak up when the cracks in my heart cause me to lose sure footing. It is much easier for me to be strong and capable and… alone. It has been in the vulnerability of weakness and sharing with others when the ground becomes shaky or the waves too intense that has allowed friends to become friends. It has been in the storms on the high seas of life that have catapulted me to my knees to seek which direction to go.
Today my yoga teacher said it is okay to go in a direction but not know the destination. I was struck by the brilliance of that sentence! Especially since my husband said the exact sentence last night on the phone with our friends’ son. It is true that we do not know where we will end up, yet we are to be faithful in our steps to keep going in the right direction. And, yes, in the quiet we hear where we are to go. The anniversary of our storm tossed arrival reminds me that life doesn’t always offer stories that are safe. I am off in a few minutes to have a biopsy. That word stands alone and holds great uncertainty. I will keep going even though the outcome is not clear. We really have no choice, right?
I will not always live in this home or possibly in this part of the country. My body will certainly not stay as healthy and young as it is this present moment. (And yes, I am old yet my heart feels young). Who knows where or what the next move will be. Or when the next storm waves will cause me to be tossed and thrown about. My hope is not in avoiding tumult, but in how He will be with me every step of the journey.
 
Becky Allender lives on Bainbridge Island with her loving, wild husband of 36 years. A mother and grandmother, she is quite fond of sunshine, yoga, Hawaiian quilting and creating 17th Century reproduction samplers. A community of praying women, loving Jesus, and the art of gratitude fill her life with goodness. She wonders what she got herself into with Red Tent Living!
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Oh Becky! I’ve long told Kevin you are my role model for aging boldly and beautifully in Christ. Truly. I, too, was in Seattle yesterday for a diagnostic test for a suspicious something. All fine but no fun. Praying all well with you. Blessed that you moved to Bainbridge!
Dear Katie, thank you. Your words go deep…so deep. I am honored by your amazingly kind words. Your mother is one of my all time role models. Her love for Jesus surpasses most. You reflect Jesus always….blessings to you and I am grateful our paths have crossed.
Beautiful words and writing from a beautiful soul. Thank you Becky!
Thank you. Thank you.
Loved this, going through my own transitions at present. Beautifully said.
Prayers to you…who I do not know. Cling close to Jesus. Every decision…may you ask Him! He will answer. Trust that!
As I read this, my soul wants to cry out in a loud, anguishing wail!!! I’ve moved way too many times and stability has eluded me apart from Christ. Yet He is invisible! And that makes it hard to fix one’s sight! Yet fix we must. “We really have no choice, right?” Blessed be the ties that bind, Becky. Your heart in this meets mine dead on, and I am encouraged. Thank you for your work in distilling the essence of life in the face of rough seas. May Seattle sunshine fill your day.
I miss you! Miss your lovely smile. Your caring embrace. Your heart always goes before you….and then, I see you. That is a very, very big heart you possess!
Becky, thank you for such an articulate painting with words you have created, a reminder of the loss and suffering I experienced as I moved way too many times growing up as an MK (missionary kid). I have been struggling recently with my heart, recognizing my tendency to live emotionally unattached to people, but not knowing why. As a kid, I could not put words to what was happening to me, yet you have helped me do that a little. Perhaps my mother holds one of the keys. Perhaps my gratitude for what I have now will increase as I am more able to put words to and connect emotions to what I lost then. More importantly, I pray that my heart will soften and strengthen to love more deeply. Certainly there is no real maturity without suffering, but too often there is suffering without maturity. Thank you for opening up that window to your soul, and letting God spill in, and out.
I, too, will pray for your heart to soften. Your life, without question, angers the evil one because I trust you love Jesus so much. And thank you for noticing the spilling out! It hurts, yes…come Lord Jesus! Seems you are definately on the road to maturity. Thank you, Daniel. Thank you.
Thank you!
Thank you, Becky, for these kind and generous words from your heart. I felt the catch in my soul as you described the journey to Washington…I felt the uncertainty and pain for you and your children. Yet I loved how God has traveled with you and settled your heart to face what tomorrow may bring. I trust the biopsy is over and all is OK…and that you are weathering the storms as they come…somehow I know your faith will outlast any storm on the horizon. I love you….MJ
Thank you, Mary Jane. Oh, yes…God traveled and endorsed this move! Still waiting on that biopsy. So at peace with Jesus….my life is His…His life is mine. Storms are good…even with sea-sickness! All is well with Jesus as my skipper. Love to you, Mary Jane.
Just what I needed today as the storm rages on in our neck of the woods. Thank you for reminding of the bigger picture, the fast forward for the different view. It was brave and the antithesis of ‘alone’ and ‘strong’ to mention the scary biopsy word. Thank you for letting us Red Tenters lift you up in prayer. After all that’s what this tent is for. Praying for courage and peace today.
Yep, totally odd to mention the word biopsy. Crazy. A journey most of us will have if not already. Why hide it. It remains in His hands.
I am so glad you made that journey. What a perfect portrayal of what we experience. I thoroughly enjoy the way you write. I felt heart pangs when you said that you would not always live in this house, or this place. I selfishly ache at the thought. I join the others in praying for courage and peace today for you.
Thank you, Ruth, you are a huge gift Jesus gave to me in moving. You are part of my ballast!
Thank you for your vulnerability here. It does, indeed, often take a storm…
Ah, yes, Nina. You know that well. A storm….one day it will bring us to greet Jesus!
Becky thank you for voicing such honesty. “My ballast was missing and the awareness of tipping over was ever present. Nothing was in place. My heart ached and the words in my head said, “What are we doing here? Did we make the right decision?”’ I shrink down as I read this, what a season of rooting that must have been. Oh thank you for sharing.
Dear Anna….you know the storm. Hang in there. Your dream to house trafficked minor boys….I trust is Jesus’ dream too!!!! Blessings to you, young one, with such a big heart. Love to you and Chris!
Becky, thank you for sharing such an intimate place in your heart. Your words “it is okay to go in a direction but not know the destination” caught my heart. You sailed into the unknown and there were moments of severe heart storm. And your boat arrived safely on the shore…..for the moment. There have been and will be new storms. Your words invite me to stand strong in my own storms with a knowing that He is with us. Thank you Becky.
Valerie, thank you for your words of affirmation. And, oh, how we all navigate the high seas and remember how alike we are. It has been so sweet reconnecting with you after 38 years! Grateful, so grateful that we continue loving Jesus!
Thank you for putting such heartfelt words to a time of transition. I felt what you were feeling and could picture each step. I share many of these feelings from our recent moves and am so grateful for His precious presence through each twist and turn.
Blessings to you in your recent move. May He send a big, fat, quick anchor at this new time for you!
I remember watching your moving van pull away, and how we all felt such hollow sadness to see you go. And hearing of those trecherous light-box filled, depessing, dark and rainy days and nights. Who could have known what goodness would come for you and the gazillion (I think that is accurate) people who are touched by your lovely heart. One thing is sure: you belong to God.
Oh my goodness, Jan! Ah, yes…you were there. Thank you for coming at such an agonizing time. Your presence sent us hope that a new story was being written. Moving….thinking of you!!! Love, Becky
Dear Becky…It has been a gift to read this as I enjoy the quiet of an empty house, grateful for the solitude after cross-country flights, different beds, and the presence of hundreds of people in recent days. Being transient often stirs longings inside of me to “be at home.” Your detailed description of what is was like to move from one beloved home and community to another that had not-yet-become-beloved is so thought-provoking. One of my favorites of all the things you’ve written is when you said: “My hope is not in avoiding tumult, but in how He will be with me every step of the journey.” There is much to ponder from “Remembering Home”. Thank you.
Dear Karen, thank you. You remain a dear friend even though the miles are great between us and the times together almost non-existent. Your heart goes with every email you send. Grateful for you and Dave!
Your words offer me hope and clarity – as I am in a place of transition -feeling very unsettled and restless.
Prayers sent right now! I declare that your transition will be good in all ways. Hang in there. Hold on tight. Jesus holds your cleats and lines!
I love your writing, Becky. You feel like a gentle breeze and a deep sea at the same time.
Thank you, thank you, Michelle!
Thank you for your words of honesty, sadness and hope. I have just moved across the country with a newborn and a toddler, having left some wonderful friends and my heart aches for the comfort of familiar friends. Sometimes I feel it, other times I don’t because I’ve numbed it with all the drudgery of motherhood that can so easily overwhelm. Today I’m feeling the ache especially and your words provided comfort. Thank you. I’m encouraged to share my grief with old and new friends.
Dear Kim, my heart goes out to you. I love that you are encouraged to share your grief with new and old friends. Doing so is a risk and allows others to also risk by hearing and sharing their heart with you. I hope you find just the right people to talk with. I am grateful my words were helpful.
“It was as if the keel of my being was gone”
Thank you for this image which so perfectly describes the way my life has felt for the past nearly 3 years. While I have clung, like a drowning wretch, to the straws of my faith, I have felt no sure ground beneath my feet, no clear direction. I have felt as though the keel of my being has come loose – if not completely apart. And yet I think that what it has shown (and is still showing) me is that much of what my keel was made of was not Gospel Truth (as I had assumed) but my own convenient and self-reliant variations upon it. My husband was part of my keel where Jesus alone should have been. The keel of our family as a whole has felt entirely absent. While mine has been broken and loosened, our family’s has been shattered. Or so it has felt – because my dear, beloved husband has almost lost hope. He has come undone. He has been within a hair’s breadth of total despair. It would take pages and pages to articulate all the particulars of this painful unravelling. I’m not even sure what my purpose is in writing even this much. Other than a deep and desperate need for connection with others who have known something similar in their own lives – and have lived to tell the story. I so long to be through this storm, reflecting on it from a sunnier place and telling the story of God’s faithfulness and goodness.
But for now there is still the seasickness of doubt. And the deep weariness of a long drawn out fight to hold on to what I know is true – in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
My other purpose in writing is thanks. I want to thank both you and Dan for the ways (unknown to you!) that you have been a source of courage and sustainance in the darkest times. Through this blog, through Dan’s podcasts – especially the ones you did together, through books, and through Dan’s talks (especially the Wounded Heart). His has been the voice of truth and sanity that has kept me from drowning at times.
Thank you Becky. For your robust, feminine faith. For your gentle, strong vulnerability. For your willingness to share your heart. And for being a life force for others.
I hope that someday somehow we might meet in person.
Lyndal