AGAIN
There is no box to curl up in. No rest. No retreat.
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Cardboard is its own nesting place for things necessary and needed in a surprisingly anchoring way.
These brown four walls. Held together by tape. The familiarity of them is startling. In some ways more germane to my life experience than the walls covered in plaster that the designer in me so craves.
I am on my knees, which signals that what comes next is intended to be a clarifying conversation with the Creator of all things. Creator, in case you wonder why I choose this name over so many others, is the one I most-identify with.
Tonight I open my mind and heart thinking my mouth will do the same.
Instead my head is burrowed into the mattress [now resting on the floor in an empty room] as if to escape the chaos inside and around me. In truth, I am mostly talking to the sheets.
The conversation begins with what I can only describe as perplexity.
"Are we really doing this?"
The question isn't about faith. Or obedience. Or even willingness.
It is about moving.
Again.
There are people who have lived in the same home for twenty years. I know because they tell me [as if I am doing it all wrong]. Sometimes boldly in the comments. Sometimes gently to my face. Always with a tone that hovers somewhere between curiosity and concern.
"I don't know how you do it."
The truth is, I have become an expert in starting over.
Boxes. Tape. Sorting. Organizing. Selling.
Again.
Isn't it true that God is often doing something long before He explains Himself? Still, I want an explanation.
Instead, I receive a question.
Have you not been paying attention?
Not exactly the answer I was hoping for.
Then comes the revelation.
From the first page of Scripture to the last, God is relentlessly creating.
Reviving.
Reinventing.
Restoring.
Renewing.
Beginning again.
He is the Creator of the new thing.
The King of the do-over.
The One who looks at what is broken, abandoned, unfinished, exhausted, or simply outgrown and imagines what it can become.
The evidence is everywhere—
A barren woman becomes the mother of nations.
A shepherd becomes a king.
A fisherman becomes a disciple.
A persecutor becomes a preacher.
A tomb becomes a doorway.
Again and again, God reveals Himself through transformation. Not preservation.
Perhaps the question is not whether God likes change.
The question is whether we do.
Most of us spend our lives trying to create permanence.
We buy homes. Build routines. Establish traditions. Arrange furniture. And then quietly hope nothing moves.
We speak of stability as though it were the highest virtue.
Yet from the first page of Scripture to the last, God appears remarkably comfortable with change.
Abraham. Moses. Ruth. You. Me.
Again…and again, God calls people away from what is familiar and into something not yet revealed.
Not because He delights in chaos.
Because He refuses to leave us where we are.
The fresh start.
The do-over.
The rebuilding.
The renewal.
Why is it that when change arrives, we immediately begin searching for the 'wrong' in it. Sometimes we even look for someone to blame? Ourselves. Our spouse. Our choices. Our circumstances.
Obviously something must have gone awry.
Surely this interruption is evidence of failure.
But what if the exact opposite is true?
What if change isn't punishment or an unintended outcome?
What if it is purposeful renewal?
What if the ground breaks open not because something is dying, but because something is being formed?
We speak of reinvention as though it were suspicious.
Rebuilding as though it were defeat.
Starting over as though it were evidence we failed the first time.
But creation itself tells a different story.
The seed splits.
The caterpillar dissolves.
The body heals.
The seasons change.
And somehow, we are surprised when our own lives require the same process. Maybe we are meant to do the same in how we live.
Which brings me back to the boxes.
The packing paper. The cardboard walls. And the familiar question.
"Are we really doing this again?"
I smile when the answer whispers.
Of course we are.
This is what God does.
He creates.
While I pack my life into boxes, I remember He carries me.
How remarkable that I serve a Creator who is unimpressed with the idea of staying the same.
When I let go of everything familiar, that's precisely when He draws near.
There is nothing packed into those boxes that can compare.
He restores.
He rebuilds.
The question is not whether God is willing to begin again.
The question is, are you?
NOTES
On my terms, my life has been disrupted: cancer, moving from state to state, multiple homes. But what about how He sees it? I am beginning to understand that Renewal is His favorite thing.
Why are we so afraid of beginning again when God seems so fond of it?
It’s so easy to mistake disruption for failure. I think it’s because we’ve been taught that stability is the goal.
Again and again, God meets people in transition. Endings become beginnings. He invites them into something not yet revealed.
What fascinates me the most is the evidence of all of this is found in our own bodies:
The lining of the stomach renews every few days.
Taste buds regenerate approximately every 10–14 days.
Skin renews itself approximately every month.
Red blood cells renew approximately every 120 days.
Much of the human skeleton is continuously rebuilt over time.
Even now, while you are reading this, your body is engaged in repair, replacement, restoration, and renewal.
Healing is not an anomaly.
It is a design feature. The most fascinating part of who you are.
IMAGE: At the end of the empty hallway Is a bronze lamp I found at the Pasadena flea market years ago. When I first laid eyes on it I thought, why would anyone let this go?! The lamp is one of the few and rare things I will never give up or away. It's shade is already tucked inside boxes, proof that change is a gradual thing. No box for this treasure. I will take it with me in the passenger seat of the Jeep.
Last week it was the vintage bowl. This week it’s the lamp.
Both are witnesses. Both carry history.
Both are more than the thing itself.
And that's a very Sanctuary Living way of seeing the world.
Beginning again is not evidence that something went wrong, it is evidence that something is still very much alive.