It’s been a hard, hard year. Found out I was pregnant with Lachlan in January 2021. We began pursuing CDL school for Blaine to prepare to move in March 2021. The house sold in April. Blaine finished his classes in May. We moved to South Dakota in June, planning to live briefly in the camper at my parents’ acreage while we found a place to live.
We were still living in the camper in September when Lachlan’s birth became an emergency surgery, and still yet in October when I had a hysterectomy seven weeks after my c-section. Here we are on the last day of December, a full six, almost seven months after we moved, still living at my parents, though now in the chicken coop-converted-bunkhouse (which is world’s better than the camper, with much more space and our own bed). We can’t find an acreage of our own anywhere in the state that’s even remotely suitable. We’re beginning the new year still at my parents. If you’d have told me that at 38 years old, having been married for 19 years and now with my ten children, we’d be living with my parents because we can’t find a small acreage of any sort even remotely close to my parents… yeah. It’s been a rough year. Our belongings are in storage. We routinely wish we had something or another, but finding it or finding room for it here… hard to impossible.
Now, if my parents were writing this blog, they’d probably say it was rough for them too. Their quiet, clean home has been invaded by twelve people. A couple of those twelve people are noisy. Very noisy. And messy. Very messy. And, well, even trying to minimize, the stuff for twelve people is immense. Winter made it even worse. Coats. Hats. Snow pants. Gloves. So. Much. Stuff.
I don’t know what to think that the next year might bring. I’m kind of scared to speculate. I’m almost scared to dream even. I rest in the knowledge that God knows all, and cares for us, even when that looks so very different than we’d choose.
Happiest of New Years to you all.