I am surrounded by
boxes and bags as I sit here on the navy blue sofa in a small cleared space in my
living room. A large wardrobe is stood a little to the side, ready to get
picked up; and by the television there is a collection of wires and boxes.
There is a gas-fire that brings a comfortable warmth to an otherwise very grey
and dull day.
I moved into my new flat yesterday. My arms are telling me their muscles were used as I carried numerous boxes and furniture, and breakfast this morning included a bit of a treasure hunt to find a bowl, spoon, and box of Weetabix somewhere in the mountain of stuff.
Moving brings back
memories and reminds me of years gone by. So many moves... Leeds, Fortaleza,
Plymouth, Kansas City, Amsterdam... all cities which were home for different
seasons in my life. Specific moving memories popping into my mind as I have
been packing and thinking and writing...
1995 when I stood with
my luggage ready to get the ferry to Newcastle, England, only 19 years old. Travelling
with far too much luggage to start my life as a student at the University of
Leeds in England. And after a bit of a rough ferry crossing marking the start, ending my three
years of Uni with more knowledge, maturity and friends.
9 years ago when I was
moving from Fortaleza, Brazil. There were many late nights trying to screw down
heavy wooden curtain rails that were so high up I had to stand on a step ladder
and stretch as far as I could. Add to that tropical temperatures and it became
quite an ordeal. And driving a little car what felt like probably 10+ times
around the block to move my things from my flat to the project of “Casa de Meu
Pai”. And then sitting on the floor of my empty flat realising it was the end
of an era, and being so thankful for the years I had got to live in that
beautiful place (even with cockroaches, scorpions and tiny ants visiting from
time to time).
And moving from
Amsterdam 2 years ago. Feeling so sad to be leaving the ministry I so loved,
yet knowing it was time. Wondering if I would get to again feel as alive as I
felt when getting to visit the women in the windows. That life that comes from
bringing life to others through a message of hope, dignity and future. And
feeling thankful knowing there were others who remained who would continue
relationships and keep ministering to those precious women.
The journey of packing
which causes one to stumble upon old papers and things which hold such strong
reminders of what life has been lived. An ugly yellow mug, which I would never
serve someone tea in, yet want to keep as it reminds me of my university years.
Or a stained notebook of recipes from when I was in secondary school, which has
value only to me. The boxes surrounding me reminding me that even if I haven’t
been able to transport many belongings during my travels, I have still managed
to accumulate quite a large amount of stuff.
And now I’m here. In some
ways it feels like I’m moving into my life. My many years abroad have kept me
un-rooted, and where my peers here in Norway are way past the “buying your
first house” stage, I am just catching up. It feels like a huge step, and at
times it is overwhelming that I now have a mortgage I am responsible for. And
yet it’s a step with so much peace. And when there’s peace, everything is
manageable.
And so I feel like I
have come “home”. I look forward to make
this flat a real home for myself, and perhaps a place of rest and refreshing
for others. As I settle more into my life, I hope that when I meet others, be
it through my job or otherwise, that I can also bring peace into their lives. And
maybe now that I am finding a greater sense of being settled I will start
writing more. Find more words to express the ponderings and thoughts about things
present as well as past, and as always, mostly writing for myself.