I am constantly reconfiguring our entryway in hopes of finding a way to capture order in this space. It is our dumping ground. It is where each person empties their burdens and armor as they step through the threshold of the home. There is a table to catch keys and mail that always has an odd assortment of things that have not yet found their place. In Alaska, there was a coat rack and baskets full of outdoor gear, dog leashes, ice cleats, bear spray, and all the things we need to wander in the wilds. This is where the mud would land, the layers were shed, and the things carried in from our daily battles accumulated. In some sense, the chaos of this in-between space meant it was serving its purpose well. It was the dividing line between the world out there and the sanctuary of our hearth.
There is an ongoing battle between desired order and necessary chaos within every major entry point. We host orientations for students and onboarding training for new hires in an attempt to smooth the transition. Try as we might, there is always that settling-in period. Building new relationships and routines takes time. Moving is often listed as the sort of crisis that can put a marriage in danger and have dangerous learning impacts on children. Yet it can also be seen as an opportunity for growth. Rev. Wenceslao Vial, psychologist and vocations director, affirms this deep connection between crisis and growth, explaining:
Crises are challenges in the face of difficult situations, which require judgment and decisions in order to move forward. Those who suffer them can be strengthened, become more mature and optimistic, or regress into becoming insecure and unhappy. In many cultures a crisis is considered to be an opportunity. Even in the darkest moments, we will be able to hear the Lord’s words to the Samaritan woman, identify with them, and try to focus on the will of the one who sent us.[1]
I have thought about this a few times throughout our move. When Peter was laid off, he looked at me and said “Katie this will help us grow in virtue.” I thought that was a beautiful response. God has helped each of us grow over the past year in many unexpected ways. The crises indeed became a gift. However, it was our interior train tracks of prayer, friendship, and sacramental participation that helped us all keep our hearts open to the graces of this season.
A monk at the Assumption Abbey in North Dakota once shared that the monks change rooms every four years to force them to resort and resettle all their belongings. He said it helps with detachment. I find the thought of Benedictine monks (an order known for stability) changing rooms every four years bizarrely comforting. After multiple moves, I have developed a sort of settling-in routine. There is a renewed opportunity for listening and solitude while settling in a new community and forging new bonds. There is also an opportunity to detach from things no longer needed and open my heart to new opportunities.
Our new home has a little courtyard at the entry. There is a little gate defining the space. It allows me to sit outside with my dog and get to know my new neighbors. As I prepare the entry of our new home, I think about our hopes for this next chapter. We have a shaded place to sit and visit in the cool evenings during our hot summers, and a little fire table that provides plenty of warmth during our mild winters. This morning a neighbor stopped by, and we visited on my porch for a bit. That small visit turned my hopes for this space into a concrete reality.
What helps you find stability in seasons of change? Do you view your threshold as a space of hospitality, transition, or security? What helps you define this space?
[1]. Wenceslao Vial, Psychology of a Vocation (Downers Grove, Illinois: Midwest Theological Forum, 2023), 9.