median jig.

I am in this transitional place in my life where I can't dig my heels in because I know that in seven and a half months I will be, in many ways, uprooted and re-planted.  That is a very violent way of explaining getting married, but I can't imagine a much greater jolt than suddenly compounding your own life, which has always been yours independently, with someone else's.  Except perhaps birthing a baby, which I am nowhere near.  So in this middle earth, this no-man's-land, I am trying to hold out and juggle the unknowns.

For instance, insurance.  I realize that it is completely necessary to have insurance.  What if I had to have my appendix taken out and didn't have health coverage.  I'd be something like twenty-thousand dollars in the hole.  But my parents' plan will let me be a leech for a few more months and then I get married so shortly after that.  But what if, by some outside chance, my appendix, which has been faithful to me for twenty-two years, decides to rupture in that small window of lawless insurance un-coverage?  I'm out of luck.  But for a person who trembles at financial details, I feel sort of pre-dominated by the whole thing.  This is pathetic, I realize, and I need to grow up and stop being such a baby.  So what do I do?  Call my dad of course, like I used to do in fifth grade when I'd lay awake at a sleepover birthday party and finally decide I couldn't hack it, I had to go home.

What is more, I live in a new town with a new family in a new basement apartment where there are new behemoth insects I've never seen before.  I need a new job and new friends and my new church is starting a new series for the new school year.  I am familiar with little more than my fiance, Mark, and the fifteen-year-old over sized chair and ottoman I grew up watching TV in which my parents donated to the our-daughter-owns-no-more-than-what-fits-in-her-Civic fund.

Therefore, because of this sort of rootlessness, I feel like a hobo with a pillow case holding all of my worldly possessions slung over my left shoulder walking down the median of a busy street.  Zoom, oh my! That car just about clipped me!  

The appealing thing about hobos, though, is that they are constantly on the move, always seeing new things and new people, discovering more beautiful things in a lifetime than people who are, perhaps, boxed-up and stamped, ever get to see.  So despite my itch to be at home, familiar with my neighbors and my schedule, I am pleased to find that this kind of adventure is probably actually very life-giving.  What is more, I am finding that I feel at home where Mark is, where my journal and books are, where my Bible is...and that is quite enough.