There’ve been a lot of messages coming up about ‘change’ lately; on social media, Google Photo memories and even in church. It seems it’s that time of year again for me to do an introspection about how much life has zoomed away from my expectations, but I’m not really ready. I’m still reeling.
We’ve changed to Level 1 again but December is looking to be another at-home lockdown affair instead of the crazy, glorious feasts we’re used to celebrating. Christmas was so amazing around the pool with far too many people in a small space.
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A photo popped up of how much my little farmhouse has changed from when we moved into it five years ago. Now, there are two little boys, six bunnies, some chickens (aka black sparrowhawk KFC), and an almost complete renovation.
It’s incredible to see how much a home, garden, body, marriage, and lifestyle can change in such a short time.
Change is hard because there are things you can’t take with you into the newness. Some things must stay in the past to make way for what’s better.
I’m still shedding actual tears whenever I think about the ancient flat crown. It had a crumbling stone wall beneath it that whispered to my imagination every time I took a walk down the driveway. It’s gone; that bulldozer only needed an hour or two while clearing a patch of land for our long-planned macadamias. All that history, gone.
The heartbreak was probably more intense because of the three grannies I’ve been grieving this year; and the friends and death of relationships so prevalent right now in my circles.
But change needs clarity, doesn’t it? It needs pathways so that rebuilding, replanting, and courage can stand on that quiet empty space and bloom.
I will always miss the tree, only divine intervention can heal such a deep wound and wipe that guilt away.
How might the future look with a beautiful macadamia grove, though? It couldn’t survive in the tangled, awful lantana that strangled everything beneath the flat crown.
Now, those trees can thrive. My family can grow alongside them, forging new and wonderful histories that they will be able to tell my great grandchildren who might still be in this place.
I’ve grieved for my life before Covid enough now, too. Healing means change. I’ve changed the way I shop, socialise, and see the world.
The future will look different from what I imagined, but that’s okay.
Where there is change, there is hope; and the Constant One keeps watch over it all so that we can have courage as we go.
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