The strangest part of our move back to America was the fact that we got to and, I suppose, had to choose our own house.
At this point in my life, the military no longer chooses it. And the nonprofit organization with which we served for 14 years in Indonesia wasn’t choosing it. It was up to us to choose. Ready or not.
I’ve enjoyed the many perks of not having to choose my many addresses. As an Army kid, I could leave my entire world as a child and move to another Army-assigned house in yet another state. All that was left for me to do was make friends with the kids, also just arrived from far flung places, on the other side of duplex.
Then as an adult married to a jungle pilot, I could show up in a foreign country with only a handful of Rosetta Stone-taught words. And someone would hand us the key to a house another expat had recently vacated—with a note on the kitchen counter that had directions to the nearest doctor. Then it was up to me to make do with the proximity to the late-night karaoke club.
This time, though, we are leaving the big mission, the community-like-family, and all the choices they made for our family.
Sometimes this change feels like entering into a world of freedoms, possibilities, new breath. Sometimes, though, it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, gasping for air.
For the rest of this post, which appeared in June edition of the online magazine, Among Worlds, go here.