Beginning of October, I reached 10% of my Peace out Florida savings fund with no opportunity to move on the horizon. A friend and I were on the road when I recited all the reasons I wouldn't be able to leave for a long, long time. My excuses circled around the state of my bank account, family, and health like they often do. This friend, reluctant to take my objections, challenged me with the "well, why not?" questions. I sat as a passenger on the trip, seat-belted to my fears. It was safer that way.
Sitting with fear felt justified. After all, the last cluster of months had been intense. The family structure I'd always known crumbled and as a new way to cope, I started coasting on feelings of "meh." Settling into indifference requires no work. You shrug your shoulders and forget about redemption stories where faith, hope, and love triumph. (Or hang as signs in a living room.) People would say they're believing for my family's miracle—brighter days, restoration, the prodigal's return. Everyone loves a good comeback. But they forget to tell you how much soul-crushing work it takes and how teeth-trembling it is to start believing God for good things again. The hope meter might rise, but so does the risk of disappointment. So instead, we keep driving on with our desires thrown in the trunk—out of arm's reach yet close enough to us.
I decided I couldn't withstand another major transition after this hell of a year and the clean up it required. Any new venture would be put on hold because surely my family needed me near. I was tempted to revert to my default: fixer Erika, savior Erika, hold-it-together Erika. Plus, having a chronic disease made it easy to create excuses to stay around. (it's amazing how loving and wise codependency can appear!) Truly, I was looking to live a life which required as little faith as possible. I wanted to regain control.
Well, I guess God can't be fooled. One week after that road conversation, I "randomly" received a text from a new friend with an invitation to move near Atlanta. She and her gracious family offered me a place to stay. They said to come, to figure the rest out later. I took three days to think and pray, thrilled and doubly terrified by the possibility. Unlike most everything in 2017, this answer was obvious. Somehow, deciding to go felt like choosing how to cook your eggs in the morning—hardboiled or fried? It wasn't strenuous or complicated. On that third morning, I quit my job with my boss' support. My family gave me their enthusiastic YES! to seeing me leave and suddenly, an exit plan was in motion.
In the four weeks from decision to departure, the unfolding move seemed more and more like the right thing to do. I couldn't shake the feeling that this time around, staying, for me, would be disobedience. So although I was scared of everything from driving highways to restarting in another state, I was going to do it scared and do it anyway. Connections formed quickly and provisions were supplied in a way I can only credit to a God who sees. Before I'd packed one thing, I received a free car and mechanic work, got a job 7 minutes from my future home, and was passed a handful of numbers to like-minded ministries and people I never knew existed. A few blinks later, I was saying goodbyes and Tetris-ing belongings into my Camry.
Now, here I am, ever thankful for fuzzy socks and GPS as I settle into the fourth week of my new (and cold!) zip code. It happened just. like. that. Why the entire process went so seamlessly, I have no idea. Some might call it a lucky break. No—Georgia has been God's work of mercy and loving kindness in my life. I wasn't brought here because of a job or relationship or treatment. It wasn't the timing or even city I would've chosen for myself. I'm here because my Redeemer wouldn't let my gifts, desires, or dreams stay stashed in a trunk any longer. I'm here in Georgia as an act of faith, declaring my trust in Jesus and his ways once again. I want to rediscover the trueness of a hope that promises to not put me to shame. I'm flinging myself toward hope, toward Christ, and toward his plans for my life at the tail-end of a grueling year.
And that, my friends, is chapter 1 one of Georgia, me, and the surprising route God has put in place.