I once believed God would never ask me to live out of anything but a suitcase. Though I moved into my first apartment when I was 19, I was always ready. Ready to pack. Ready to quit my job. Ready to move. Ready to live in limbo. A fellow missionary once told me she called “home” where ever she took off her underwear. I quickly understood what she meant and managed to follow in her footsteps in one way or another.
Even the last four years have given me the illusion that such a calling was still the plan. Every nine months, I moved out of a dorm room and into some else’s house. My suitcase seemed like it stayed full.
I went where I was needed. I loved who I saw. When I was no longer needed, I left.
But now, I’m married. That life of limbo is both precious and disappearing. With each picture frame I hang, I feel Jesus put his arm around me and whisper, “It’s okay. You can stay here. I want you here. Rest.” With each piece of furniture my husband builds for me, I’m reminded that my wander-lusting missionary heart is no longer needed as it once was.
It’s no longer necessary to know where my suitcase is at all times.
Whether that’s for the rest of my life or merely for a season, I guess I’ll find out. Right now, I’m learning to fall in love with the opportunities I’m being given because Jesus has given me a reason to stay.