This the view I see every morning.
While that isn’t my horse, it belongs to my new Amish neighbors.
That’s right. I’ve decided to stay on the farm. Today is the first day of my new tomorrow.
While that isn’t my horse, and I’ve dreamed about the day I’d own a horse again, at least when I step out on my front porch I get to see one, I can walk down the road and pet him and feed him a carrot or two.
The kids have started their first day of tomorrow, too. A new school. They’re already making new friends.
It wasn’t easy and the decision often leaves me with moments of second thoughts, guesses, and fears. The one thing I do know, however, if I wouldn’t have stayed I wouldn’t ever know if going home was the right thing to do.
We think of it in many different ways. The only home my kids knew till now was the house in the town where the street was often occupied by city cops, flying ambulances down the street, and nowhere to ride a bike safely.
Their bikes have gotten more miles this summer than the years we’ve lived on that city block.
Sadly, there are few who miss us. Less than a handful really.
When I think of those from our church, from the school district where I volunteered, from associations and kid activities participated in—only three or four people have noticed our absence.
Yet, so many more back here on the farm have expressed the joy of having us stay.
I guess that is one way of knowing where you belong.
They say there are people in crowds that are still lonely. It amazes me how one can be a part of something large and when a piece crumbles away it goes un-noticed.
We’re so busy reaching out and doing for other people that we become blind to those in our inner circles, and those people fade, become invisible, and are forgotten.
I once heard someone speak about taking care of what’s close to home before extending out to long distance places for offering aid. Yet, we often can’t see what is going on in our own homes to acknowledge the needs and no one else wants to tell you what seems to have gotten broken.
Where do those people go that fade and disappear?
Some of them go home.
Some go where they are not invisible anymore.
Some follow the dirt road leading to the first day of their tomorrow. Where that leads, I don’t know. But for stabilizing the foundation of my family, becoming visible again, and owning my identity—I’m willing to go down this path.
If there was one thing you thought you’d always regret if you didn’t do it, what would it be?
This is the first day of your tomorrow, too.