There are unbearable sweetnesses that I will miss. Sitting in the sunroom, the windows flung upon to the garden, robins and cardinals hopping about in the paths softened by leaves, a cup of tea warming my hands. The swelling music of the teapot at night mingling with the quiet roar of the heat kicking on; the creak of stairs, known to me in the dark when all the lights have been turned off before bedtime. And of course opening doors to houses that are not ours and seeing welcoming smiles encompassing us and our children, a scrape of a kitchen chair, long mornings of talk and evenings of laughter.

Now that I know there is an end to this chapter in our lives, I am struggling to remain in the sweetness of each moment. Sitting in the sunnroom this afternoon, I remembered what it was like to look at the garden and see years of work unfolding, wondering how tall the quaking aspens--planted our first fall six years ago--would grow and plotting paths and new beds. I found myself longing for that safe, warm feeling of time unfolding gently in front of me.

I tried to express some of that feeling to Martin, because it made me feel as if I was succumbing to an easy smallness. Martin looked over the rim of his teacup and said, "It's funny, what's happened to me since I found out we'd be leaving. I began to look at all this, and realize it for what it was--a stopping place for us, not a permanent place."

Tonight in my inbox I received a message that should have gone to spam, from the Highlights Foundation. I didn't open it but the subject line caught me: "In revision lies the story." Our lives are constantly being revised, in small ways or large, whether we welcome the changes or not. I don't ever want to find myself in a place where I refuse revision--then I will be looking at that blank, horrible wall that means I have welcomed mediocrity. But I am astonished at the big revisions that life has thrown at me, and most of them I have not sought.

Thankfully, with each revision there is much grace--more than the spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down. There are unexpected rainstorms of mercy, and they often soak me when I am feeling most barren.

So though I have counted multiple, hitherto-unseen white hairs on Martin's head in the last two weeks (not a joke), I am trying to both dwell in the sweetness of each moment here while keeping my hands open. I just want to be ready to walk through the next door, weary and a little travelworn, but with my fingers ready to receive what is next.

In the meantime, I am enjoying the solace of our dear family--my mother who took care of our kids while Martin and I went to a conference for a few days, and then helped me clean out some of the darkest, dingiest places in my house--and our dear friends who have practically bombarded us with their generosity. I keep saying, "Yes, yes, please!" I think it's my duty and my pleasure, at this point in our lives, to take all the grace handed to me without dithering.

I also enjoyed, quite unexpectedly, learning of a petition site for Martin--just look up Martin by his first and last name and add "petition." I don't know who set it up, and Martin won't look at it--he's trying to keep out of the fray as much as possible--but I found it a lovely experience, to read notes from people who have known and loved him. I don't read it with any anger, just with a deep appreciation of our time here, the students Martin knew, many of whom who have sat in around our table and shared their lives with us. We are so grateful.