Balancing in the Dark
Waiting for something you’re not even sure will happen presents a unique challenge—and opportunity—to embrace the here and now.
By Leslie Gelzer-Govatos
My kitchen trash can is broken.
We’ve owned this particular trash can for a few years now, and the can itself, being stainless steel, is sturdy as ever. But the foot pedal that allows you to open the lid without touching it doesn’t work, which makes using the trash can a minor annoyance encountered multiple times throughout the day, and inevitably confuses our guests.
It would be so simple to replace the trash can—and I keep saying I will, then failing to follow through.
The trash can came with us to this house in the summer of 2020, when my family packed up all our belongings and moved from St. Louis to a small town in Nebraska. We had never visited said town, and we knew nobody here. It was an odd time to move. Masks were still ubiquitous in public spaces, making the already challenging job of meeting new friends feel like a nearly impossible effort. But it was, as we thought at the time, just for the year. We were so relieved for my husband to have a job, even a short-term job, after he completed his graduate studies. He hadn’t been able to have a graduation ceremony, of course. His university sent him a celebratory t-shirt in the mail instead.
When he got the offer, after virtual interviews, we scrambled to find a house to rent. With only a few weeks until we needed to arrive in town, we utilized the power of Craigslist to find a farmhouse with a big yard just outside the small town where my husband would be working. The first time we saw it in person was the day we moved in. Our plan was to live in this farmhouse and homeschool for one year. We had no idea what might come next; but at the time, that felt almost exciting. It was all part of the adventure.
When some friends from St. Louis visited our new home partway through that year and asked how we were liking Nebraska, I remember telling them it felt a little bit like we were on vacation. There was an aura of unreality about that year. It felt idyllic in many ways, as I watched my children explore an unprecedented amount of outdoor space and catch frogs in the small pond some distance from the house. We went to church, my husband went to work, we homeschooled and we grocery shopped. And that was really it. We left quite a few belongings in boxes and might as well have been enjoying an extended AirBnb stay.
Our second year in Nebraska took us by surprise. It was the only job offer my husband got: one more year of employment. Just one, we were assured. So we continued to live, mostly, as if the clock was ticking down. There were several activities and opportunities I considered, feeling the need to expand our social circle (even a houseful of introverts can only take so much time alone in a farmhouse), but I kept resisting the idea of committing. After all, we wouldn’t be in Nebraska much longer. I didn’t want to invest too much or get too attached.
This mentality, I noticed, seeped into a myriad of decisions big and small. When the kitchen trash can broke, we said, It just won’t come with us when we move. That’s when we’ll buy a new one. It became a frequent refrain: We’ll do that when we settle somewhere permanent.
It is striking to think of our efforts to realize our gifts as bringing Jesus joy, and it is an opportunity I don’t want to miss.
The problem with this approach is that you begin to feel like your current life doesn’t really matter. It was fun at first, when I had the feeling of being on vacation; but it wasn’t sustainable. As we entered our third year here and once again expected that this really would be the last, I began to wonder if, rather than conserving time and energy given the impermanence of our situation, I might be squandering them.
For many years I have found the Parable of the Talents to be one of the most haunting stories in the Bible. Entrusted with varying amounts of money, two servants take what they’re given and grow it into something more. The third does nothing. “I was afraid,” he tells his master, “and I went and hid your talent in the ground.” He is reproached for being wicked and lazy—unfaithful with what was given to him. But his rationale hits uncomfortably close to home: I felt afraid, too.
I started to reconsider how Jesus was calling me to be faithful where I was, with what I had. How could I “earn interest” on my talent for Jesus, preparing myself to “enter into the joy of my master”? It is striking to think of our efforts to realize our gifts as bringing Jesus joy, and it is an opportunity I don’t want to miss. I didn’t want to bury myself in the ground, waiting to bloom when I moved somewhere more permanent. At the same time, I wasn’t sure what I should be doing now, when my long-term prospects felt so clouded.
St. Teresa of Calcutta said, “God doesn’t ask that we succeed in everything, but that we are faithful. However beautiful our work may be, let us not become attached to it.” Attachment, in this sense, is to put the work itself in the place of the One it is meant to glorify. Our work, then, ought to be a gift offered back to God, just as He offers us the gift of talents, passions, and energies to begin with. I started to consider how I might learn to labor in my impermanent home without attachment to my work, to maintain detachment even as I became more fully grounded and present in my current reality.
Living with the constant expectation of an imminent relocation, we felt unmotivated to extend friendship when we might not have a chance to see it blossom.
There is no manual for this process, because it looks different for everyone. But I pondered the gifts God had given me and the way I felt called to use them. What was holding me back? Wasn’t there some way to do those things now, however imperfectly? If I didn’t at least try, wasn’t I risking unfaithfulness and becoming that servant who buried his talent in the ground out of fear?
Take, for instance, the calling my husband and I feel to exercise hospitality. We believe it to be one of our spiritual gifts and a way we, as a family, can serve God. But since our move, we had made few efforts to realize it. Living with the constant expectation of an imminent relocation, we felt unmotivated to extend friendship when we might not have a chance to see it blossom. We wanted to reach out to other people with the hope of building long-term relationships—of getting to the good part of a friendship, where you can welcome your friend over even when your house is messy. Inviting people into our home became something else to do “when we’re settled somewhere more permanent.”
The result was that a core part of our family identity was stagnating. I knew that we needed to change, so I started making efforts to invite people over for a meal or to host playdates. Although I didn’t have the expectation of being able to develop these interactions into truly deep and lasting friendships, I found it didn’t matter. It was challenging at times to welcome people into the joy and chaos of our large family, but it was also immensely rewarding. I felt a growing sense of community and the satisfaction of knowing I was leaning into the desire to welcome others that God had placed in my heart.
Aside from developing friendships, there were also things we imagined doing in some parallel universe where we stayed in our current home long-term. We didn’t just say When we move somewhere more permanent, but, If we knew we might stay here… Our town has a large Spanish-speaking population, and I had said to my husband If we were going to be here long-term, I’d like to learn some Spanish. I finally started doing a bit of Spanish every day on Duolingo. Even if we leave, it can’t hurt; and while we are here, it brings me joy to make the effort, small as it is.
Once I started investing more in my current circumstances, even realizing they could change soon, there was a snowball effect. I got to know the people around me better, and friendships began to form. I started a small book club and joined a homeschool co-op. Even if it was just for the year, it would make the year happier. I started treating this town more as my home, and less as a vacation spot.
There are so many things we’ve come to love about this place, and so many people we’ve come to care for.
Of course, there is a danger to this path: live as if you are rooted in a place, and you will put down roots. I looked around me after some months of effort and realized how sad I would be if we did, in fact, move on. How sad I will be when we almost inevitably move on. There are so many things we’ve come to love about this place, and so many people we’ve come to care for. “Love anything,” wrote C.S. Lewis, “and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken.” The idea is applicable beyond relationships—love for places and spaces and circumstances all have the potential, and even the certainty, to wring your heart. I felt this, even as I rejoiced in my fledgling friendships; I was making myself vulnerable. Yet I couldn’t afford not to do so—rooting myself in the place God had put me, even if I risked being torn up again, was necessary for me to be the person He was calling me to be.
When I was small, I remember making a paper countdown chain for Christmas or my birthday or some other long-awaited special day. Paper chains are a clear representation of exactly how much waiting is left. The excitement builds exponentially, as one link gets torn off each day. Waiting for something unclear, something which may never even happen, presents a different kind of challenge. You can’t afford to be too excited or filled with anticipation. But you can’t afford to be apathetic either. Keeping to the middle ground is a little like trying to balance on one leg while your eyes are closed, and it necessitates listening very closely for the still, small voice of the Holy Spirit each day.
I don’t know where my family will be living six months from now—many possibilities are still in front of us. But I have come to think of this season of uncertainty as a kind of training for the rest of life; because in truth, we all live in a state of impermanence. My experience over the past few years just forced me to think about it more than I ever had before. There is always a challenge presented by our short and uncertain lives—a danger in becoming too attached to the things of this world and, conversely, a danger in wasting our talents during the short time that we have. Paradoxically, we have to choose to embrace, and sometimes even create, things that we will say goodbye to—things that we will miss. It is hard and sometimes painful work, but it is also our chance to thrive during times of waiting, when we lack control and don’t have as much perspective as we might wish.
I still haven’t replaced the kitchen trash can. It remains one of many reminders in my daily life that I won’t be here forever. But I have realized that it’s not such a bad thing, to live with the awareness that I don’t know what tomorrow will bring or when I’ll have to account for my talent. Even as I crave more stability, I see myself presented with an opportunity to grow and flourish, here and now.
Leslie Gelzer-Govatos reads, writes, runs and homeschools her five children in Crete, Nebraska. She puts her undergraduate degree in philosophy to regular use answering questions such as “Are you real?” and “Does God wear pants?”
