We’ve lived in this new home, this new city, for six months now — both no time at all and also an eternity.

For six months now, I’ve attended anything and everything, all in an attempt to find a friend, plant some roots, belong somewhere. I don’t know any other way.

I guess I thought it would be easier? 

I shouldn’t have, truth be told. I should know by now, as a military spouse, that things take time, even if you don’t want them to. I know about the slow work of God, the long-haul process of forming a community, the little-by-little growth of new life in a new place. I know re-building, re-starting, reminding myself again and again of the goodness of God — even when I’m tempted to forget.

We’re in our new home for three weeks before my husband has to leave for his first unit training. I’m tempted to forget.

It’s the beginning of a new school year and my three girls come home in tears for a solid month straight. I’m tempted to forget.

I attend women’s brunches and school functions and neighborhood meet-ups and everyone seems too busy for the new gal. I’m tempted to forget.

I lament to my husband how I can’t quite find my footing here, my purpose, my people. I tell him how I want to just quit everything. I’ll just stay at home, I say. I don’t need people after all, I’ve decided. He reminds me of how much I love community, how much I love teaching women, he reminds me of the best parts of me.

I tell him he’s sweet but that I’m mostly tired. 

It’s a Thursday morning and I’m sitting in my chair, feet tucked underneath me with my Bible open on my lap, a candle burning next to me. The sun isn’t awake yet and my children aren’t either. My guided morning reading has me in Isaiah but I’m only partly paying attention — my distracted mind can’t stop running circles around my disappointment and exhaustion for having to start over again and again. 

I get to a verse I’ve read so often that it has become familiar to me but never personal. This time, though, something in my soul catches, tears spring to my eyes and I read the verse again and again:

“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”
Isaiah 40:31 NIV 

A verse I’ve seen on posters and in cards, it felt overused and inaccessible. But in the desperation of weariness, I read it with a renewed awareness. This time I see grit, I see endurance, I see abundance. 

It’s the final two statements that really hold me: They will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. This renewal of strength isn’t a finish line moment, I realize. It’s a call to action, it compels me forward. There’s still running, there’s still walking, there’s still movement — only it’s powered by hope in the Lord. 

The morning moves on and so do my days, but I move through them with a new perspective, a new drumbeat inside of me compelling me forward: Don’t give up, don’t give up, don’t give up. I decide to lead a Bible study class with our local women’s group. It’s an act of defiant hope, really; a rebellion against despair. It’s an intentional choice to not give up, to actively seek the good for myself and others. 

Building a foundation in our new city didn’t necessarily get easier after that moment, but I don’t think that easy was ever the goal. An awareness of God with me in each of those moments, inviting me into a renewed way of living — one that endures, believes, and hopes in all things — that was the goal. 

I’m walking into the women’s Bible study one morning and another woman comes up to me. She connects with me in a way I hadn’t yet connected with anyone — she stops what she’s doing, looks in my eyes and says, “You’ve been on my mind so much lately. How has the settling in process been for you here? Are you doing okay in this move?” 

There was something different in the way she engaged with me — she wasn’t making small talk. She genuinely wanted to hear how I’ve been doing. Because of this, she felt safe. Unbidden tears spring to my eyes as I tell her how I’ve really been. She asks more questions, I say more words, wiping away tears the whole time. “Thank you for seeing me,” I tell her at the end of our conversation. 

“Well, God put you on my heart this morning and now I know why.” 

I realized I wasn’t ever as alone as I had felt. Through the power of showing up in community, this woman helped me see the goodness of God that was surrounding me the whole time. Her presence helped strengthen me as I grew in hope and endurance.

I’m so glad I didn’t quit. We really are stronger together.

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