“Oh, the joy of nothing is a sweeter something
And I will hold it in my heart.
Yes, I will hold it in my heart.” –Foy Vance
Exactly one year ago my family moved to a new state. I felt internal pressure to dive into activities, make friends, and navigate new territories because that’s what I did in our three previous moves.
But instead of going outside to become acclimated, I came inside.
I flanked myself with family. We planted seeds in the backyard. We waded in nearby streams. We paid attention to the way the summer rain sounded on our rooftop. My blog went quiet. I filled many notebooks, only my eyes privy to the words I’d share when ready.
I did not jump in. I did not take action. But I was always looking—looking for The Moment when it felt like everything would be okay in this new place. Much to my relief, there were many of those soul-assuring moments when divine connections and experiences brought tears to my grateful eyes. We’ll be okay, I often reminded myself quietly and consistently.
Despite the moments of assurance, I could not ignore the missing pieces—the important parts that made our life a life before the transition. These particular missing pieces created a painful void that could not be denied.
For the first time in four years, my eleven-year-old daughter did not have small children to come to her homemade summer school.
She stopped making lesson plans and talk of becoming a teacher disappeared.
For the first time in four years, my eight-year-old daughter did not have a guitar instructor who taught her both the singing and strumming.
She stopped singing and the joy slowly diminished from the pluck of her guitar strings.
For the first time in years, I was writing a book without my sister friends—those who knew and loved the pre Hands Free version of me and had supported me through the book writing process once before.
I stopped writing the second book despite the looming deadline; I just couldn’t find the words.
The missing pieces seemed to be emphasized when my younger daughter would crawl into bed at night. She’d slide her hands beneath the pillow and bury her face into its softness. After breathing deeply, she’d say, “Put your head on my pillow, Mama. Feel how soft and cozy it is? It feels like home. The real home.”
Pictures of her best friends sat by that pillow. Do you think they’ll forget me? She often asked.
When there are missing pieces in our lives, things don’t feel quite right.
Naturally, my controlling, Type-A personality surfaced during these moments of insecurity, imploring me to fill the missing pieces in our new life. Research! Network! Plot and plan! Take action! Dive in! Get all the details in order! my inner perfectionist ordered.
For the first time in my life, I did not take action. I waited. I trusted. I listened. I held on.
For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to simply BE despite the urge to fix the hurts and fill the spaces. My prayer was that by being quiet, I would know when the right thing came along; I would know when to take action.
It came six months into our transition when I went to a speaking event of one of my favorite authors in a town nearby. It came three months after that when Listen To Your Mother held auditions for their show in my new city. It came again one month ago when I felt called to bring my daughter’s former guitar and voice teacher to perform for our neighborhood as we danced on green grass and picnic-covered blankets.
With each deliberate action, a missing piece was divinely filled. Last week, nearly a year since the move, it appeared that those pieces were no longer absent. I looked through the lens of my camera with tear-filled eyes to see less emptiness and more life …
Precious little children delighting in Natalie’s summer school (now known as Disney Princess Camp) …
Avery joyfully singing and strumming “Amazing Grace” with her extraordinary new guitar and voice teacher (a beautiful writer divinely appointed to encourage our child) …
And me, dancing to live music with new sister friends and celebrating a completed book going to print in mere weeks …
Our family recently returned to our house after visiting dear friends from our old neighborhood. Avery snuggled into her bed and said, “It’s good to be back.” And then with a contented smile she added, “Home.”
One year ago, I never would have imagined these words from her lips.
One year ago, I wondered if I should be doing more to fill the missing pieces.
But in the waiting and the listening, the voids were filled far better than I could have ever planned.
My friends, I have spent a year gathering hope. And I think it was so I could offer it to you today. Whether you face a physical move or one of life’s many transitions, there’s a good chance you have some missing pieces. And although these holes feel empty, worrisome, and stressful, I want to suggest an alternative to what your head is probably telling you to do:
Maybe the best thing you could do right now is just sit with it awhile.
Maybe the bravest thing you could do right now is just decide this will not defeat you.
Maybe the most productive thing you could do right now is just fold your hands in solitude.
Maybe the most sensible thing you could do right now is just laugh … laugh in the face of it all.
Maybe the most powerful thing you could do right now is just close your eyes and envision a positive outcome.
Maybe the most loving thing you could do right now is just give yourself room to breathe.
Maybe the best thing to do right now looks like nothing at all.
But it’s not.
Because when you’re gathering hope,
it’s patient.
When you’re gathering strength,
it’s quiet.
When you’re gathering resilience,
it’s unnoticeable.
In the face of transition, challenge, and uncertainty,
Sometimes the best thing you can do right now is just hold on and listen.
Because in this Great Act of Inaction, you are better able to hear the most important callings on your heart. And in some round about way, in some time period beyond your control, may those voids will be filled in ways you could have never imagined.
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Update: Since writing this post in 2014, I have published five books and one audio series! The essence of this post – learning to listen and trust the guidance of your heart – is captured in my newly released book, Soul Shift: A Weary Human's Guide to Getting Unstuck & Reclaiming Your Path to Joy. It is my first interactive guide designed with illustrations and exercises to help us find our way back to what delights our heart, makes us feel alive, and brings us peace. Soul Shift has been in the world for one month and has already earned 149 five-star reviews. Here are a few:
“This book is what I've been waiting for years. Its gentle guidance helps me discover who I truly want to be without guilt, shame or pressure. On every page is another quote or idea that touches me to my soul. The book truly lives up to its title – I can feel the shift happening.”
“Soul Shift is everything you would dream of in a dear friend. One who soothes and supports you in tough times. One who shows up to celebrate the essence of who you are. The one that will ask you the hard questions lovingly. The kinds of questions that make you take your time to answer. The questions that dig deep to the core of you.”
“For a weary human like me, this book is perfect. Bite-sized stories give me something to think about and work on without feeling overwhelmed. I can go at my own pace, go back to revisit, or stay on one topic for longer if I need to. Soul Shift is a welcome addition to my day!”
Friends, the reason I have been able to continue writing and sharing my words with the world these past ten years is because of your support through the purchase of my books, hand-lettered prints, online course, and in-person workshops. I am so grateful for your hand in mine.
Beth says
This article continues to help.
We moved this past spring and it has been a lot of sitting with grief of children missing friends and trying to figure out “who they are” in this new space, school, community. Trying to help them do this has been a difficult balance of sitting quietly with them, encouraging them and even pushing them and trusting when to know which to do.
I’m impatient to make this home feel like our safe space and fearful that the busyness of life will continue to get in the way of that happening – some days don’t allow for energy for sorting, cleaning, painting, etc.
So I’ll use the energy when I have it and when I don’t, I hope I’m at least just “being” with my children and that’ll have to be good enough. I know that’s all they want.
Thank you for creating space for reflection here.