I think it was when our pastor stood at the front of the gym this week to tell us that his wife had miscarried that it hit me: we’ve been transplanted from the strength of a city to the brokenness of a family.

That’s not a complaint. If anything, it’s the opposite. Though I will admit that the pangs of nostalgia for NYC endure and are not likely to subside: the feeling of being a part of something monumental; to live in the heartbeat of that most amazing place and watch as it’s transformed by the mercy of a church that knows how to love because it knows the Gospel, not religion; to read a work of fiction set in Manhattan and think, I’ve been there! at the mention of a restaurant or I’ve seen him! at the mention of a local celebrity.

BUT. I have now become ensconced in family more than ever before, with additions to my own and marriage into another and involvement in a smaller church that feels like one. This is a new feeling for me, as evidenced by my doctor’s visit this morning and my hesitation at filling out the demographic questionnaire when I got to the part where I had to check the box: married? Single? My hand flew reflexively to the single box, where I resided for thirty-three years, many of them hopeless and bitter (had I gotten my petulant way years earlier, I would likely now be checking divorced, can I get an amen?). My brain and heart intervened and I headed on over to married, laughing at myself and hoping The Husband wouldn’t take it the wrong way when I told him the story later. (He won’t.)

So it’s new to me, the move from single city-dweller to married girl in a house. And there are what some may call drawbacks now, what with my spending more time plugging leaks than frequenting happy hours, but they aren’t. Drawbacks, I mean. Not when you add it all up and carry the 1 and remember gratitude. Grass we’re not standing on may tend to look greener, but I’ve learned the difference between allowing nostalgia and comparing lives and I’m getting pretty good at watering my own grass (if not growing my own literal garden). And in the spirit of blooming where I’m planted (can I use any more yard cliches?), I considered there, from my seat in the gym, how beautiful the brokenness of being in a family can be. How being a member of Redeemer felt like riding a wave of powerful justice and change, but one of its own admitted drawbacks is its size (currently being addressed by division and planting). And how now, tears clog my eyes and those around me as we are faced with the sadness of one of our own. How being in a family can make you feel busted and bruised, but also beloved. And belonging. How I realized that, when we went to The Sis’s house this weekend for dinner and listened to The Dad and The Uncle tell the same stories we’ve heard a hundred times, this is what didn’t happen at happy hour. How big grace is, that it knows each of us by name and has designed a place for us, whether in the city, or in a house…or both.