Tag Archives: moving

See You Back Here Soon

The Guided Transfer to WordPress.org is set to begin in T-7 hours at 5 a.m UTC. That’s 11 p.m. CST tonight!

new beginnings

new beginnings

The Happiness Engineers have asked me not to make any changes to my site during the 24-hour process. That means no replies to comments and no new posts. Had to get in just one more for good measure.

Funny how the freedom to communicate is no big deal until someone tells me I can’t use it. 

The engineers explained to me they are technically setting up a new site, even though it will have the same web address and the same content (we hope) as this one. It will be kind of like starting over from scratch. Or moving to a new house in a new city.

Had a bit of practice with that recently.

As with any move, I imagine some items will need to be fixed or replaced. A share button here. A spam catcher there.

Please bear with me as I move in and set up house. It may take a little time to put things back together. Pray for an easy learning curve for me and patience for the support people at WordPress and Bluehost. I have a feeling I’ll be leaning on them a lot in the next few days.

Pray for my husband and son, too. You get to read about the emotion; they get to live with it.

I miss my old blog already. It has been a Godsend to me. Didn’t expect this change would be so exciting, scary, and bittersweet. Feels like very much like the first time I hit the publish button.

This marks my 225th post. Ready or not, here we go.

May Your unfailing love be with us, Lord,
even as we put our hope in You. Psalm 33:22 NIV

Take My Love With You, new from the incomparable voice of Bonnie Raitt.

Thank you for reading. You are the best!

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Unopened

This is a letter my dearest in the world friend gave me the last time I saw her. Four weeks ago, December 18, 2011.

unopened

There it sits. Pristine. Unopened.

I couldn’t open it the last evening we were together with our families in St. Louis because I would cry. We both knew it would be a long time before we’d see each other again. So I saved the letter to open it later.

“We’ve been here almost a month, and you’re handling this move really well,” said my husband last week. “You’re not crying.”

No, I’m adopting the Midwestern attitude. Putting my head down to forge a life on the prairie. Onward and upward. Just. Work. Harder.

If I open that letter, I’ll disintegrate.

I’ll cry big tears when I think of all that’s been lost. At the same time, in front of me stands so much that’s been gained. The gains hold the tears at bay in a bittersweet tension.

Before we moved, parents from our son’s class at school had a going away party for us. My son asked why they were having it.

“Is it a birthday party?” said my seven-year-old.

His friend, whose family was hosting the event, was with us that day. “No,” he said. “It’s a you’re-going-away-forever party.”

Female Orpheus Fountain Figure by Carl Milles as seen at Missouri Botanical Garden

I intervened. “We’re not dying. We’re only moving.”

But moving is a sort of dying. All changes are. A beloved Bible teacher of my past used to say we first experience change as loss.

We held it together, as did most of our friends, through our goodbyes. Then there was that moment the day I rushed to the groomer’s to pick up the dog.

We wanted to have Ella groomed one last time before we moved. As I paid the sweet shop owner, told her goodbye and thank you for all her years of service to us, she began to sob.

“We’re really going to miss you and Ella,” she said.

Fear shot through the muscles in my face. Confusion billowed up in my brain. Not the groomer. She just couldn’t lose it. No, no, no.

“There’s something about those terriers,” she said and boohooed some more.

“We’ll miss you too,” I said helplessly. “I don’t know how we’ll ever replace you.”

And we won’t. We’ll find another groomer. We’ll find another salon, dry cleaner, church, and circle of friends.

moving truck

Another, but not a replacement.

That’s what I tell myself to keep from opening that letter. At least for now.

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted;
He rescues those whose spirits are crushed. Psalm 34:18 NLT

Me, I’m a part of your Circle of friends. By Edie Brickell.

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Filed under family & friends, life

Finding Il Vicino

il vicino clayton closed due to fire

Il Vicino was one of our favorite restaurants in St. Louis. But Il Vicino had a series of unfortunate incidents.

First, a wayward car plowed through the outdoor dining area and right into the restaurant. Not good.

A couple years later, Il Vicino had a fire and closed indefinitely. Not good at all.

I’ve eaten hundreds of meals at Il Vicino. When it was just my husband and me. When we were expecting our baby.

When we celebrated our baby’s first birthday with friends. When we were without a kitchen for six months during the big house remodel.

Have our order memorized. Two house salads with gorgonzola, a Da Vinci pizza, a children’s penne pasta with marinara on the side, a regular Coke not diet, an iced tea and a lemonade. For here or to go. Always the same.

As the months dragged on after the fire and the restaurant didn’t reopen, I knew I’d never eat at Il Vicino again. There were other locations, but not in St. Louis.

It was sad, but survivable. We moved on to other pizza places.

Dewey’s opened a location in University City. Pi opened in the Loop. And there was always good old Papa John’s or Domino’s.

St. Louis folks will notice Imo’s missing from our list. In our nearly 13 years here, we never did acquire a taste for St. Louis style pizza so many of you love.

Anyway, we moved on. Same way we did when we left Sir Pizza in High Point, North Carolina, and Giordano’s in Chicago.

il vicino wichita

Then we found out we’d be moving on literally. Our relocation to Wichita was imminent. We journeyed west for a visit.

You’ll never guess where we ate pizza in Wichita.

That’s right. Il Vicino. They have two locations there. The only two in the state of Kansas.

MapQuest revealed Il Vicino is less than five miles from our new house.

Memories flood me in these final days as a resident of St. Louis. I visit the places we’ve frequented and drive the roads we’ve traveled for more than a decade. They’ve become sacred in a way.

It’s the memories and the people that make them so. It’s the life that was lived there. Like our bodies, these places are dust but for the lives that were lived there. The living gives them meaning.

Translated, the Italian il vicino means the nearby.

leaving university city

Wichita, St. Louis, Chicago, North Carolina—they’re not so far apart. I hold them in the nearby. In my memory, my heart. I will add to them as long as I am alive.

Come near to God and he will come near to you. James 4:8 NIV

Emmanuel. God with us. O Come, O Come, Emmanuel by The Franz Family.

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