Samantha looked at me today, sitting on the couch with her laptop, when she saw today's date, and said, "Three years."
It took me a minute to realize it was indeed exactly three years ago today that we got up before dawn with a van packed to the ceiling, including two insane cats in crates, one good-natured but confused doggie, one father-in-law, two red-eyed kids who were trying not to cry as they watched their just as red-eyed grandmother waving us away from Texas and the only home they had ever known.
15 hours later, we pulled into the driveway of our new home exhausted and relieved to be there unscathed, although I'm not entirely sure about the cats.
We came full of expectancy, sure that everything would work out, because so much had fallen into place along the way to get us here. What I have to remind myself sometimes is that if everything works together for the good, it doesn't necessarily mean every single thing is good in and of itself. My faith was deepened by those miraculous events, but it grew roots because of the troubles that came after we arrived. Not to say that the disappointments and compromises and frustrations we've overcome in the past three years have been easy, but something about seeing this anniversary still standing is a milestone of hope.
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