Right now, I’m living by a lakeside in rural Georgia while E is training at his new job, in what feels (to me) incredibly remote, along a highway, where I cannot walk to a grocery store or coffee shop, surrounded by desolate trees shorn of leaves. It is the kind of place where I would set a murder mystery; the body, covered with dead leaves, discovered off the earth-packed trail to the water, or in one of the winterized boats at the marina.
The quiet is indescribable. Even when I can hear my neighbors talking through the walls, there is something so incredibly still about this place; a heavy, lingering silence.
It is temporary. A resting place or halting ground between stations. In three months, we will be across the country, in a city, with our own stuff; the noise of traffic and late-night drunks, the stress of apartment hunting, the fun of finding new places where we can become locals.
So how do I settle in here, with a pair of suitcases and a dog into an apartment full of someone else's things; trying to get to know neighbors I will not likely see again. It is a strange feeling. It always takes me time to get to know people. What am I supposed to do with a weird interlude to my life? How can I make use of time that feels like wasted time?
And yet, the purpose God has for me in being here is bigger than what I would plan for myself. What I see as wasted time, he has ordained as an opportunity to meet and minister to my neighbors; to rest from the frenetic pace of packing and preparing our house to sell; to focus undistracted on work and writing; to be involved in and ministered to by a thriving church; to breathe.