Kara and I are in a waiting game.
Maybe it's because we started it.
When we decided to put the house on the market, and start this RV adventure, we knew we had some work ahead of us. And for several months we dove into that work, patching and painting walls, installing flooring and thresholds where needed, patching and painting the outside of the house where needed. We cleaned, we organized, we moved things to storage. And during all that we went on pre-arranged family trips, dealt with all the day-to-day of our work and our lives, and (oh yeah) published a dozen or so books. I have no regrets.
But it did put us going to market a bit late.
At least, I think that's the problem. Our house went on the market in August—pretty close to the beginning of the school year—and we're now halfway through September. We still have a very nice house, but no RV. We still have the excitement of the dream, but we haven't really started yet. Not the way we wanted to start.
It hasn't dampened our enthusiasm for this plan, but it's definitely poured a bit of water on the fires of momentum.
That happens, I know. There are times in life when, even if you know, deep down, that the course is right, the heavy storm winds start blowing and the huge, chaotic waves start swelling. You do everything it takes to weather the storm—you fight to stay upright, you baton down every hatch, you tie yourself to the week and use everything you've got to keep her on an even keel.
And then ... it stops.
Calm. Stillness. The ocean is glass. And there isn't a breeze to be found.
Which, effectively, means you're just drifting, at the mercy of the ocean.
So you wait. You need that wind. So you wait. You can't set sail without something to fill those sails. So you wait.
That's where Kara and I are at the moment. We went through the storm of getting ship shape, getting our house in order and researching exactly how we want to move forward, and now we're just drifting on an ocean of glass. Our sails are raised, but they sag from the mast, getting the occasional flutter as someone comes around for a house showing, or someone makes a lowball bid.
And we're just sitting here.
I make that sound kind of maudlin and self-pitying, but it's really not that bad. It's frustrating—because we're so ready to get going on this whole adventure. But it's not intolerable. I mean, hey, we do have a nice house, after all. And, for the first time in our marriage, the place stays sparkly clean and organized all the time. Because you never know when someone's going to want to come in for a showing.
But we're still just sitting here.
This is one of those times, though, where we get the reminder: God has his own plans and his own timing, and neither may line up with yours.
I have zero doubts that Kara and I are on the right track with this RV life plan. I have absolute faith that we can thrive while traveling, that it will be an inspiring experience that will lead to many books, and that we will be stupidly happy as we do all of it. But we're definitely getting a "not yet" from God on when to start.
And hey, that's cool. Any time I've ever pushed for my own agenda in life, things haven't always turned out keen. In fact, more often than not, things turned out much less than keen. Anti-keen, if you will.
But seriously, what are we gonna do? Complain? "Crap. We have this big, beautiful house, and it's preventing us from cramming everything we own into a much smaller RV!" Ain't it funny what becomes a crisis?
I wish I could say for sure that we would be on the road by X Date. I really do. I wish I could say that we are already knee-deep in that whole journey. But it's coasting a bit. We're on an uphill drive (to switch metaphors suddenly), and when we get to the top, maybe we'll be able to pick up momentum on the other side. But until then, we'll just adjust our thinking, we choose to be grateful for where we are and what we have, and we keep doing whatever needs doing to get us to the next phase.
That happens, sometimes—your dreams and your goals get a big ol' pause. And it's how you handle it that tells you who you are.
Sheesh, I still feel like I'm being maudlin! But I'm not, trust me! I'm being reflective. And I'm being grateful. It's not a bad thing at all, to have a nice home and nice things, a comfortable place to write and relax and live. Just because we're moving toward a distant mountain doesn't mean we can't enjoy the scenery where we are.
And believe me, I'm not wasting the waiting time. I have books to write. Three of them at the moment, as it turns out. More on those projects later. But for anyone reading this, and thinking, "Yeah, I have my own mountain, and I'm having a tough time getting to it," I just want to say—you rock. You're brilliant. You are already ahead in so many ways. Take stock, take inventory, take a breath.
This trip is just starting.