Jessica Marshall sat in my college writing classes for four years, always eager to learn. But I can take no credit for her raw talent and voice. The most I could do was encourage her to keep writing and keep practicing what she instinctively knew. Since graduating in 2015 with a degree in professional writing, she has done just that. Between freelance editing and writing, she keeps The Gypsy Life blog. I’m so thankful to call her a fellow writer, friend, . . . and, today, my guest blogger.
One chilly spring evening, my four sisters and I watched our bunk beds burn.
Our brothers had simply sawed them in half, ripped them from the walls of our little room, and dumped the remains on a burn pile.
For some of my sisters, the tears flowed freely.
In case you are wondering how my brothers could be so heartless, let me explain.
My three sisters—Sharon, Joanna, Monica—and I did not suddenly find ourselves homeless that spring day. We were the daughters of an evangelist and had grown up traveling all over the country. We lived in a 40-foot bus that contained a living room, a kitchen, a shower with a changing room, a toilet with a sink, and two bedrooms. A long aisle ran from the living room all the way to the door of my parents’ bedroom in the very back of the bus. This aisle divided the couches, the refrigerator from the sink, and the bathroom from the shower room.
The bunks were aptly nicknamed our “coffins.”
This line also divided the bunkhouse where my sisters and I slept. Our minuscule bunkhouse held three bunks on each side of the aisle. The bunks were six feet long and barely wide enough to hold one body. They were aptly nicknamed our “coffins.” Tiny closets were separated into two sections; the top held shirts and blouses, and the bottom held skirts. Underneath the bottom bunks, six little drawers held socks, underwear, and other unmentionables.
This tiny bunkhouse held memories unending. Giggles. Secrets. Tears. Prayers. Hopes. Dreams. And one spring day that ended.
The decision was made to move the four of us sisters into a little motor home we had nicknamed, “The Hippie Mobile.” (My siblings and I nicknamed almost all of our vehicles. Except for the bus. Somehow, its name always remained the “Bus,” as if it had no higher calling.) We had lovingly given the Hippie Mobile its name because it was a 1973 Chevy with felt curtains the color of sunshine and little stick figures around the edges.
Our old bunkhouse in the bus was being renovated into a video editing room, where my dad and brothers would produce short videos and cable programs for TV. Thus, the bunk beds had to go. They were built into the walls of the bunk house, and the only way to remove them was to saw them in half, then take them out piece by piece. Each piece found its way into the burn pile my dad and brothers had built.
And so 12 years of life went up in smoke that day. Even though we had bought material for new curtains in the Hippie Mobile and had laid new carpet and rearranged everything—for it once had been a boys’ domain—we still found it hard to let the past with all of its memories go.
Letting go and moving on are twins—you cannot have one without the other.
I am not sure why I thought of this event in my life. Perhaps because I have faced this kind of tug-of-war before—this fight within myself of letting go, accepting, relinquishing. And I am facing change again today.
Letting go and moving on are twins—you cannot have one without the other. To let go means to turn your back on all that lies behind you: the joys, the sorrows, the memories, the regrets. To move on means you face the future: the joys, the sorrows, the mysteries, the dreams. You simply turn around and face forward.
I could have told my 17–year-old self one thing that day: there would be more change to come. The pattern has repeated itself over and over.
Every time I think I have settled in, here comes more change, marching down the path toward me. Whether it was moving out of the bus into a Hippie Mobile, moving out of a broken-down Hippie Mobile to live out of a van one hot summer, moving into a log home in West Virginia, moving to Maryland, moving to college in Florida, or moving to Oklahoma, change was always unsettling. I felt as though the moorings I had lashed myself to ripped away, or the sturdy foundation I had relied upon exploded in a blast of dust and debris.
When I find myself facing change, I have to go back to a few simple truths.
Sometimes I wonder why I fear the unknown so much. Is it because I cannot control what lies ahead? Is it because I am fearful, my mind filling with what ifs? No matter the reason, when I find myself facing change, I have to go back to a few simple truths.
- God already knew the change was coming.
- He is preparing a clear path ahead of me.
- I can take the next step in front of me without fear.
Any other alternative—weeping, moaning, fearing, or resisting—will only cause me more stress. Pausing a moment to take in these truths helps steady me.
I can always expect change. I can also expect that He will be there, too.