23 June 2009


The moms have faithfully donated their time lately to help us pack. As David pointed out, it's one thing when everything's going and it's all in the same kind of box. It's a whole other animal when part of it's going into boxes for Haiti, not to be seen for several months...to take the food processor, or not to take the food processor...hmm...

This is Christine thinking, 'How much can I squeeze into this box? And will Scrabble really fit?' Scrabble is the game David tolerates best, and we're not taking a TV. You do the math.

Mom Harms, dutifully submerging herself in the chaos. And speaking of chaos, moving is hard. I find that I wake up most mornings feeling like an amnesia patient, having to look for things in my own house. It's strange and it's sad, and yet, it's sweet, because we've had such good times here. I call this apartment "the submarine," because it's long and skinny and yellow. The last one, I called "the cave," because it had all its windows on one side, and you couldn't see but a sliver of sky out the window.

I wonder what I'll call our next home?

There's no prayer request in that, but that's what I'm thinking about tonight.

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