I thought of titling this entry “settling,” making use of the double meaning there –settling being the process of making oneself at peace in a place, and settling also being the state of making do with less than what one originally wanted. Both might apply here, to be brutally honest. This is not a move I originally desired, but one of those cases where God was clearly on the move and my job was to follow. However, the more we’re here, the less that second meaning applies.

Since last October, my family’s been transitioning from our little house in southwest Minnesota where we’ve lived for nearly ten years to a much-larger parsonage in a little town of 700 in rural South Dakota. It’s an unexpected transition for me. After having written a whole book on what home means and moving and settling (my MFA thesis, as yet unpublished), I wasn’t figuring on having to do yet another chapter of re-settling. But once things built momentum last summer toward our move here, I quickly realized resistance was futile. Jonah tried running once from God’s clear direction. Learning from his example, I think I’d rather avoid the parallel of a three-day-detour in the belly of a whale (or worse). …So, if you see some posts tagged “Notes from Nineveh,” there’s the connection. Nineveh may not have been Jonah’s first choice of address, but once he surrendered to God’s calling, he had a front-row seat to God at work in the unlikeliest of places. And that’s a place I wouldn’t mind being, really. In clarification, the Nineveh connection only really applies as far as my initial resistance. I think Jonah had some anger and resentment toward Nineveh, and that doesn’t apply in my case. Neither is my little corner of the world any worse than average in terms of being a den of iniquity as Nineveh was (that is to say, it’s a typical rural small town with all its quirks and blessings and difficulties).

I may be intentionally vague at spots in the stories I share here, as I’ve learned from observation (and maybe the wisdom of years?) that one role of a pastor’s wife is knowing which stories to tell and which ones to keep. Even admitting my hesitance in selling our house and moving here feels like an indiscretion. My years of working among Christians has taught me two things in brutal clarity: one, Christians are absolutely terrible at conflict management. Two, no one speaks fluent Passive-Aggressive like we do here in the wounded Body of Christ known as the Church. And so, I take on this role with a heavy dose of caution and perhaps more than a dash of paranoia. People are messy, and pastoring is about as people-y as you can get. But I’ve also learned over the past few pandemic years that people are necessary, even for me. I may not be the one preaching, but in many ways, this new chapter is a Moses move for me. Hospitality and mercy and flexibility are things I’ve desired, but not things that come naturally for me. I’m learning how to support my husband and family (and church) as I go. All of this is new.

We’ve been here for a little over a month now. I’m finding it easier to remember names and find familiar faces each Sunday. For the first time in years, I am part of a moms’ group that I feel a genuine part of, even having been there only twice. The list of missing items (somewhere in a yet-to-be-unpacked box in the basement, most likely) remains, but for the most part, we’re at home here. I’ve charged the battery to my good camera and am hoping to add some more of my own photographs here as I find my way around. I’m finding my way into a new routine also, since I’ve taken an indefinitely long hiatus from teaching. Now that the dust has settled, I’m hoping to spend more dedicated time writing and getting more of my words out into the world (a gift and a privilege I plan to accept wholeheartedly).

Meanwhile, my copy of Kathleen Norris’s Dakota is sitting here on my desk, waiting for its yearly re-read. I look forward to finding some new understanding in it this time around, even if technically I can still see Minnesota from here.