It is 5:00 A.M. Friday morning, November 14, 2008. I look out the window at the top of our stairs. I see the big yellow Penske moving truck sitting there ready for loading and a strange feeling stirs in my stomach. A familiar yet uncomfortable knot. That feeling has been there before.

In 1972 when we sat in our Constantine, Michigan home, our first as a married couple. Aina very pregnant with our first child and me without a job, yet. At least not confirmed. So I call Whitehall Middle School and am told that the position of Art Teacher is mine. A mixture of relief and sadness washes over me.

We have lived in this, our first home for three years. Walked in the woods every day. Sat in the early morning silence as the Michigan mist settled on the newly plowed fields that circle our home. In the summer we swing from the big Oak tree and drop into the swimming hole that has been created by the river that runs through the woods. We love the woods.

The seeming quiet that makes the woods come to life and then crescendos into a symphony of sounds if you stop talking and just stand for a moment. Insect sounds and crackles as little animals scurry to and fro. The trees sigh as the wind moves through their leafy branches. The longer you remain silent the more aware you are of nature’s song. We are living in the “now” and it is so very good.

A U-Haul truck is parked by our back door. It is loaded and ready to go. We are both excited and apprehensive. Grateful to find a teaching position in a market that is saturated. I learn later that I am one of 200 applicants for my job.

I start the truck’s engine and as it comes to life it lurches forward with a crunching sound. I stop and jump out to notice that I have forgotten to load an antique oak chair left right in front of the truck. I notice green liquid pulsing through the grill, anti-freeze! The truck is registering one last final protest as if it doesn’t want us to leave. We watch with helpless disappointment as the pool of bright green ooze grows ever larger under the motor. Then stops leaking. A close call. We put the chair in the last remaining available space in the truck. Latch the door. Add some water to the radiator…and off we go!

Since that first move we have moved as a family at least 10 times. School, graduate school. Internship. First Call. Second Call. Third, fourth and Advent the fifth! Most times with a truck like the one sitting in our driveway right now.
This one is headed for New York City where our oldest will be writing the next chapter of her life as an artist. Her fiancé has been accepted to teach anatomy at the Grand Central Academy of Art. This is not her first move and will not be her last, yet each move stirs the emotions reminding me of the transient nature of life. There is both sadness and excitement at the prospect. Something old is always giving way to something new.

Each page turned in our book of life offers an opportunity for something exciting, fresh and new. That is the nature of life and family. I realize that the big yellow truck in our driveway is a metaphor for life itself. Ever changing, ever moving, ever waiting for that last trip that each of us is destined to make one day. When and where is not for us to know. That it will happen is a given. One thing we can most certainly take comfort in - the driver who takes us on that final journey knows where he is going and how to get there.

As we once again celebrate the birth of Christ this Christmas, take time to reflect on the journeys you have taken, and the ones yet to come. Savor the memories even as you make new ones. Cherish each other; embrace each other, because there is a big yellow truck in your driveway too.

Pastor Janis, Aina and our