“But now I am six and as clever as clever – I think I’ll stay six forever and ever!” My youngest daughter chanted at me one recent morning with a smile lighting her whole face. For a fleeting second, I wished that could be true. Could I keep her six forever and ever?

For me, I would, I thought pleadingly. For the endless snuggles, the way she still hates to see me leave, the lingers of baby on her face, the gangling legs and arms and little lisp of her voice, still. I love all this about her, and I love being her mom. And time seems to be this thief, stealing her away from me, one slow day into another, so that I can’t even see it happening until I do, and it hits me with a force that catches my breath and leaves me wallowing.

Is time a thief, I find myself wondering as I look at her. For all I would keep her little, it seems incredibly selfish. God made her, loves her more than I do somehow, and means for her to grow into all that he has for her life. How can I be selfish? In the end, she turned seven. Look how she grows!

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I’ve had a lot of time inside my own head lately. Partly credited to the divesting of social media and generally, the internet, I have more thoughts that are simply my own, that I am not sharing broadly, that have no possibility of a wider audience. I am finding a quiet inside my head and heart that I have not accessed for some time, and while at times it feels disconcerting, it’s also wildly refreshing.

We’re on the cusp of a transition, as a family, our intertwined lives. It’s been long in coming, in a slow kind of way, and at times, I’m quite tired. Let’s just get on with it, my mind whines. Why put off the inevitable? What is the use in this twilight time, in this suspended bubble of reality that seems shifting daily beneath our very feet?

God has been good to remind me that every season has significance, and gifts, if we have the eyes to see. It has long been a practice for me to keep a good list in my journal, and formerly, some days, on my Instagram stories. There are also practices that have served me well in seasons of stress and anxiety, grief and loss. I’m seeking to lean into those too, trusting God to use the wisdom of them to nourish my soul.

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This week, we’re taking apart our home, bit by bit. Much of it has been sold to those closest to us, as a means of blessing those we leave. While it has not been easy to sell off so much, it also feels meaningful that parts of our home are dispersing around to all these people we love. Then there’s the smaller bits we’re collecting from every room, the special dishes, the picture frames, the Turkish rugs, the books, all the books – these will get packed up this week for a shipment, some special parts of our home that we get to bring with us, and unpack in a new space.

But still – there’s this unique part of overseas life, of transcontinental living. I mean, there are many unique parts. But this one of not just packing a moving truck, and unpacking on the other side. But rather a stripping it all away – the chair I nursed my babies in, the table at which we’ve hosted hundreds of people and we’ve shared thousands of meals. The wooden benches we’ve built and bookcases custom for our spaces. The chalkboard wall that has featured many a picture, math problem, Scripture verse. These loft beds we built, in which our babies have grown lanky and clever and so fun to be around.

And even while this is just stuff, just things, I will still grieve all that we’ve had here, in this fleeting home. Our homes are holy spaces, and while we will enjoy the challenge of making a new space home, I am resisting some Neoplatonic idea that all that is physical is passing and therefore insignificant. God did not just send Jesus in spirit – he sent him in full flesh to inhabit a physical place in this physical world he created. Our experiences on earth, in the places God has put us in, are real and important and significant because they have happened not in ethereal realities, but in this very physical one.

And so yes, I will grieve as we dismantle our home. This home has been a place that has nurtured our family, has held us safe through many storms, both physical and circumstantial. This has been a place where God has dwelt among us, carried us, grown us, strengthened us for many tasks. And we will miss it, fiercely.

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So time flies. I walk through the emptying rooms of our home and see my children at every year they’ve lived here. My newly seven year old comes in for a hug, and I marvel at the difficulty of trust. God, can I let go of this place? These people? Father, how will I someday let go of these daughters, a very part of me? But somehow, I will. He has been with us, and will be with us still, into the next chapter, and all the unknowing that comes with it.