Maybe In Mississippi

I’ll confess, my daughter came up with the title for this post. Just today she said, “We should write a book called ‘Maybe in Mississippi,’ because literally, every other sentence we’ve said for the last few weeks has started with those words.” It was entirely true. We’ve had countless conversations about what we may or may not see, experience, or love about life in Mississippi. With just two nights left in our house and only four left in Tucson, we’ve talked about little else. This move has been all-consuming since the day my husband said “Yes,” to a new job offer just four short weeks ago. Now that all the major decisions have been made and the monumental tasks are out of the way, (for the most part), and I’ve finished packing AHEAD OF SCHEDULE (I’d like a standing ovation, please and thank you), I’m finally giving myself space to reflect on this beautiful place we’ve called home the last seven years. Much like our first years in California have held a sweet space in our hearts all this time, I know Arizona will too.

I’ve told this story often when asked what brought us to our church after nearly ten years of ministry in Northern California. I say that the senior pastor, Greg, paid us a visit on our turf after a handful of phone interviews with my husband. He offered to take us to dinner at our favorite place, where we were fully expecting to be grilled on everything from our theological views to the health of our marriage. It was an interview, after all. Instead, we were thrown for a loop when Greg gently lobbed questions like, “What’s the ideal vacation look like for the Imboden family?” and “What do you two do for a fun date night?” I was completely rattled. By the end of dinner, we hadn’t been asked a single “serious” question. I stared at Greg, bewildered, and said, “Is that it? Isn’t there anything else you want to know?” Greg simply replied, “I know everything I need to know.” My husband spoke up then with his question and asked, “If I come on your church staff, what goals would you like for me to reach by the end of my first year? What expectations do you have for me in those first twelve months?” Without missing a beat, Greg answered, “If by the end of your first year at New Life either of you is feeling homesick for Sacramento, then we haven’t done our job. My only goal for you after one year is to feel like New Life is your home.” We sat back in our chairs, marveling at what was just said. Zach had asked that same question to several potential employers but never had he been answered like that. As we walked away from the restaurant that night, I looked at Zach and said, “This is it. We need to go to Arizona.” A long time later we learned Greg felt the same way about us that night, and while our first year here was filled with unexpected challenges, never once did we wish we’d stayed in Sacramento. Maybe in Mississippi, we’ll feel the same way.

I will never forget the look of awkward surprise our new friend, Kyle, gave me when I wrapped him in a fierce embrace and sobbed into his sleeve after he showed up at our house on our first day here in the desert. We had just arrived to find our moving truck was nowhere near on schedule after a hellish departure from California. Kyle was the Executive Pastor at our new church. We’d only met him once before during interviews, but he was a familiar face, and on a day I felt nothing was going right, I was just so grateful for a visitor. He stiffly patted my back and asked desperately, “So, um, is Zach home?” (Despite our uncomfortable beginnings, Kyle and I became fast friends and allies.) A few days later, when our moving truck had finally arrived and our house was filled with unopened boxes and unassembled furniture, a blessed group of at least fifteen churchgoers descended on our home to assist. They set right to work hanging curtain rods, building cabinets, and filling my fridge with groceries. Before leaving they stood in my kitchen, laid hands on us and the walls of our home, and prayed for God’s blessings and favor. We were welcomed and rallied around. God’s church showed up in a big way for us that day, and they’ve continued to do so every year since. Maybe in Mississippi, they’ll do that too.

Ten months after we arrived in Tucson, our son was born. We never would’ve known about his birth mother if we hadn’t been here. Her situation was made aware to us by a fellow pastor’s wife at our church, (who knew someone, who knew someone who knew Justice’s birth mom). It’s crazy to think about really. The three days spent in the hospital at her side, waiting for the birth of our son, were weighted with worry and fear. We struggled to leave our then three-year-old daughter while we kept vigil in the maternity ward, but by then we already had friends we trusted to call. Providence was well cared for as Zach and I anticipated the arrival of what we hoped would be our second child. When Justice finally arrived, our hospital visitors were frequent. We withheld his name from everyone, just until we knew his birth mom had signed off her rights, and for the same reason, we refrained from letting anyone hold him. But then Debra came into our hospital room. As our senior pastor’s wife, she had become a most trusted confidant of mine. From the day I met her, she set me at ease with her kind and gentle nature. She was already so beloved by our daughter and I just knew she’d earn a special bond with our newest addition too. Something prodded my heart to offer her my son. Her eyes teared up as she understood the honor I was bestowing on her. I didn’t regret it for even a second. I still get misty-eyed when I see her interact with our now six-year-old Justice, knowing she was the first friend he ever had. Other friends have become surrogate aunts and uncles to our children here in Tucson, and more than any other relationships, we will grieve those the most. Providence and Justice have friends who feel like family, friends who have watched them grow, shown up for birthdays, soccer games, and holidays, and friends who have loved them as their own. Maybe in Mississippi, they’ll have that too.

Yesterday a truck dropped off our large moving trailer on the driveway. We’ll have the weekend to pack it up before it gets retrieved and driven out to our new home. My son watched intently from the front window. He and his sister have been champions this past week as I’ve packed every last bit of their comforts into boxes. They’ve made their fun and pushed their imaginations to the limits using nothing but bare mattresses and empty closets (which they’ve aptly named, “chill boxes”). They’ve been so positive in the midst of a great deal of change. But something about seeing the moving truck arrive made it all too real for my little guy. His gorgeous blue-green eyes filled with tears as he said, “I just love our house Mom! I’m so sad to leave this house!” I hugged him long and hard, whispering, “I know Buddy. Me too.”

Once he’d calmed down I gently reminded him that the house is not what makes it home. Our family, our belongings, our favorite photographs, our treasured artwork on the walls, our special songs blaring in the kitchen, the smell of garlic and olive oil on the stove; those are the things that made this house our home all these years, and all those things will carry on with us to our new house in Mississippi. I know those words are true, and yet, something inside me wanted to sit on the floor with my son and cry along with him. I looked around at the now-empty rooms and I could practically hear the voices of dear friends singing “Happy Birthday.” I could see my son taking his first steps across the family room floor. I could feel again the relief I’d felt every time I walked through the kitchen door after more than just a few hours away. I remembered my son taking a terrifying tumble down the stairwell, and the long nights pacing the hallways when he battled endless ear infections. I smiled at the memories of seven different Christmas mornings, and the amazement in my daughter’s eyes when she ventured downstairs each time. I could visualize our favorite spots to hide Easter eggs and the messes my kids made on the kitchen island every weekend. I laughed at the memory of when a lizard snuck into our house and I tensed thinking of the time a monsoon flooded our kitchen. If these walls could talk. What a witness to our lives this house has been. Maybe in Mississippi, our house will hold our family just as well.

Starting over is both exhilarating and terrifying. We are so excited about what may be waiting for us in Mississippi. We trust it will be good, even when it’s hard. Looking forward with eager and hopeful hearts doesn’t mean the leaving part is easy, but we are no strangers to closing chapters and starting new ones. We know from experience how beautifully God weaves relationships and experiences into our lives for very necessary seasons. As He calls us onward to new beginnings, He saves space for us in the past, knowing we’ll need to turn back to it now and then to gain strength, courage, and comfort for what lies ahead. Our time in Arizona will be like a favorite book, weathered and worn, littered with highlights and margin notes, ready to be re-read whenever the mood strikes us and comforting us like a warm blanket. Thank you New Life Bible Fellowship. Thank you, treasured friends, both the old and new we’ve met along the way. Maybe in Mississippi, you’ll find a guest room with your name on it. (But call first.)