All the changes of the past year–engagement, move, wedding–have resulted in multiple adjustment periods for me and The Husband.  Being married to each other doesn’t feel a whole lot different from what we were before; that either speaks to our level of commitment or our old, settled ways.  But transferring a life from New York City to Atlanta? Adjustment.  Transferring a couple from the beaches of the Caribbean to the daily grind of the office and a living space devoid of maid? ADJUSTMENT.

But this daily grind is where our real life is, and where our marriage begins.

I moved to New York because I wanted to lead a remarkable life.  I wanted to have experiences that would set me apart, stories that would be worth telling.  I wanted the city to be a part of my narrative.  I wanted to feel good about myself, and I enlisted New York’s help in achieving that goal.  For five years, I lived the life I had imagined: walks through Central Park, being stopped and asked for directions in Times Square, learning the subway system, sitting on a fire escape with a glass of wine in one hand and a pen in the other, falling in love. And now that all my dreams came true, I have the resulting life to live.

I battle the mundane nature of an existence anywhere but New York.  It sounds so cynical and judgmental to say that, but what it really reveals to me is my fear of being ordinary.  For so much of my life, all I wanted was to fly under the radar.  I dreaded attention; I loathed standing out.  Then New York happened and I stumbled upon the identity that had been crafted for me without my knowing it, after years of hiding from the world had buried it underneath layers of self-consciousness.  New York’s grit (and Tim Keller’s preaching) has a way of undoing all masks.  Now I know all the world has to offer those who don’t hide in the safety of fear.  I know how it feels to ask a personal hero a question in front of a room full of people; to walk into an apartment packed with strangers and leave with new friends; to run further and longer than I knew I could; to sip wine in Tuscany; to fist-pump at a bar on the Jersey Shore; to ride the subway at midnight; to tell your best friend you’re in love with him.

By grace alone, I have realized some serious potential.  And now that my tenure in the trenches  is over, now that I am a grown-up with a viable career and new last name and house offer on the table, I am afraid of how easy it could be to crawl back under the covers and never challenge myself again.  Surrounded by all that is comfortable, will I get lost in it?  So much of my New York life was about newness–new city, new apartment, new people, new restaurants, day after day–a barrage of possibilities.  So much of life in The Settled Down phase is about maintenance: refueling the car, replenishing the fridge, reloading the dishwasher. I don’t want the remarkable phase of my life to ever be complete, but that’s hard to remember when I am nearly lulled to sleep by the rhythm of red lights on my way home each day.

Moving to New York never meant I was better than anyone else, just more desperate.  But living there gave me a hunger for living radically.  I look around now and wonder what to do next: buy a house, find a dog, have kids.  I know me, and I know how easily I take things for granted, to the point of seeing them as obstacles.  Like those red lights–they seem to be a personal vendetta of the transportation department against me.  I wonder if I’m going to see the other aspects of my life the same way: the dog pooping to make me step in it, the kids crying to ruin my day.  I have a charming way of making everything about me, and of considering that which doesn’t add to my leisure as a negative.  I’m a victim of my own victimology.  Then I consider how much of my time in New York was spent being uncomfortable, and how many of those moments of discomfort led to moments of beauty and love.  And how, in an auditorium at Hunter College, I learned about a grace kind enough to forgive me for taking credit for anything good about myself (also called self-righteousness); a grace good-humored enough to work through my constant willingness to think my knowledge of the world is complete (also called ignorance).  I think about how hopeless a world would be in which my momentary perspective is omniscient: how a bad day might not be worth living past, how every loss would be final, how each red light would be a hindrance.  Limitations everywhere.

But it’s not so, and I have to keep reminding myself of that, telling myself my own story to remember.  The potential to be found in the narrative of redemption is endless, even among dirty diapers and oil changes, and who am I to think that New York is the best part of anyone’s biography–that God can’t write a good sequel?  After all, there are red lights there, too…and all I could do at those was stand and wait for them to change.  Here, within the newly purchased comfort zone of my own car, I can sing.