Letting go

Today was hard. I let go of more things. Specifically, my car. The car I drove to Maine in, back and forth across upstate New York in for six years. The car I meandered to mountains and lakes and hiking posts and country drives with Duncan riding shotgun. Praying in the Spirit over geographic territories at the top of my lungs and full fervor, while Duncan bobbed his lolling tongue in the breeze, his brown ears flapping wildly. I drove eighty thousand miles of singing, praying, laughing, exploring, most of them with Duncan tagging along Mommie.

Today I took my car for my final ride, to Schenectady to a friend's car lot who will try to sell it for me. I need the money, and I don't expect to need a car in the States anytime soon, as I know I am called by God to the nations. Still, however, it doesn't make it easier to l e t  g o.  Things get a hold of us, our trust, our navigation tool, and the great unknown ahead of me. I know it will be good, wonderful in fact. But I let go of one hand while the other opens toward heaven ready to pick whichever fruit is presented.

Today, I also packed up my apartment. All my cozy things are packed in storage. I'm left with the cold reminder that I can't get too comfortable, and I will have to say goodbye more often than I would like, in this life I've been called to.

I'm sitting in a mostly-empty apartment, with no car waiting for me in the driveway. The reminders and ghosts of the past driven away, swept away with the autumn leaves, as I like them drift forward and await the next season.