Over here in Sydney, the eclipse didn’t occur, and a 14-hour time jump from the East Coast means I actually often receive current events updates on a delay (while lying in bed reading them on my phone at 6am). The weird FOMO/day-ahead mentality, where my daylight is your nighttime, renders me disoriented; I feel as though I’m watching the world from a distance, as a bystander to all things America. The break from that most patriotic of traditions, the 24-hour news cycle, has been healing for me: in the absence of bottom-of-the-screen news tickers, I can choose when and how I want to be informed. But who am I kidding? I have a smartphone, and Twitter (where I get most of my news now), and a bookmarked Safari page with R. Eric Thomas’ Elle articles. I’m still a slave to culture—I’m just a long-distance slave.

Luckily Entertainment Weekly (digital edition) and Rotten Tomatoes are accessible from Australia, so after I read early reviews of The Big Sick and saw that it was coming out here, I headed with a friend to see it. The next night my husband and I went to dinner with another couple and the wife was describing some health problems she’s been facing. I took in her symptoms and was struck by how they mirrored those of Emily in the movie. Feeling hopeful and more than a bit heroic, I mentioned as much to my friend, who resolved to discuss the similarities with her doctor. A few days later, she told me that there was 95% certainty she had the same disease portrayed in the film.

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If we whittle away long enough, it is a story we come to at last…And the storyteller’s claim, I believe, is that life has meaning—that the things that happen to people happen not just by accident like leaves being blown off a tree by the wind but that there is order and purpose deep down behind them or inside them and that they are leading us not just anywhere but somewhere. The power of stories is that they are telling us that life adds up somehow, that life itself is like a story. –Frederick Buechner

The Kid wrote a story.

This term in school, his class is learning about king and queens, knights and castles. We (I) constructed a cardboard castle that I bought at the toy shop for him to take in and give a speech about, the highlight of which was that he named it Castle James. Duh. “Why are the kids in my class going to laugh when I tell them that, Mom?” he asked, with a glint in his eye, because he knew the answer: that they think he’s funny, and not in the way I’ve been terrified of. They aren’t laughing at him, they’re laughing with him. He’s not just writing stories and giving speeches–he’s making jokes.

Anyway, he wrote the story: “I went to the castle.” And it was so spontaneous, his handwriting–formerly such a struggle–so skilled, that the teacher called me into the room at pickup to show me. And she had sent him to the year two class, where the Assistant Principal was teaching, and TK read it to all of them. I MEAN COME ON.

His growth is so beautiful, and I know that because life is all things, his path will also be all things, but right now? So beautiful. I’ve been writing his story for so long, wondering if I’d always be the one at the keyboard, and now I can see these glimpses of him taking over, his self-awareness slowly seeping in like one of the Orphan Black clones, and one day he’ll gloriously push me out of the way completely and tell the whole damn thing himself. But for now: WHEEE!

But the real comedian in our family? That’s Little Brother, whose mischievous grin reveals a knowingness beyond his age. He knows what to say to earn the most laughs at the dinner table and everywhere else; his highest goal is to render TK breathless with giggles (“James laughs!” he turns to me and says, delighted); his timing is impeccable. Often he’ll deliver a joke–classic example: “I have a tasty belly”–then walks off, tossing a smug expression back at the room left laughing in his wake.

And his singing? Girl, don’t even. He’s learning lyrics left and right after hearing a song once, and whether it’s inspirational or Disney, nothing will melt your heart more than to hear him whispering “oooh, you love me best” from the backseat or belting “what can I say except, you’re WELCOME” from his bed.

And one more thing: the other day we were at the amusement park and I asked him what colour something was. Mofo replied, “Cyan,” like that’s an actual colour which it IS and when I looked it up because my kid knows more colours than I do, I found out he was right. So there’s that.

There’s a lot of things. There’s TK’s growth, which has been anything but a straight line, rises and tips and twisty turns showing me that hard may not be easy but it’s beautiful, this slow but sure uncovering of grace right where we are. And there’s LB’s growth, which unwraps itself before I even have a chance to tug at the bow, bursting out in self-satisfied glory while we all–TK especially–watch with glee.

It’s a thought I have often, while driving past Balmoral Beach or looking at my kids: How many people get this view?!

At that same amusement park, we ran into a boy from TK’s class, and I stopped to talk to his mom. Within a few seconds, he wanted to jump on a ride with TK, and his mom turned to me in disbelief. “He never rides that one. He never rides anything! He’s always been too scared.” Cut to him and TK and LB shoved into a tiny, slow-moving fire engine lolling around a circular track. I wanted to tell her the story of how he brings out the best in people and uncovers things you never knew were there, but it seemed like that story? Was already telling itself.

Later that night we were playing Monopoly, because my kid can (kinda) do that now and this is huge, and while LB expertly played a matching game next to us like it was no thang, TK cheated and moved forward one space further than the dice had decreed. He looked up at me because he knew what he had done, but he also knew what it meant: his favourite, a “chance” card. “I landed on the question mark!” he proclaimed, and I thought about all the times I’ve wanted to land on a straightforward period, how often I’ve wanted “easy” over “real.” How I’ve shunned mystery and how it’s showed up with its gifts anyway. How I’ve landed on the question mark too. And the view is beautiful.

My family and I recently took a trip to Fiji. (I will pause momentarily for your pity.) My husband billed the “vacation” as part of my present for my upcoming fortieth birthday, even though since (a) the kids came along, and (b) trips with kids aren’t vacations, then by deductive reasoning, (c) I did not get a vacation for my birthday. Nonetheless, it was one of many experiences we’ve been fortunate enough to have because of our move to Australia. The only other way I could see myself ever getting to the South Pacific is as a contestant on The Bachelor and let’s be honest: they aren’t going to do another season with old people. Oh, and I’m already married.

We were eating lunch one day by the pool and a couple caught my eye. While my husband asked if I was listening to him, I studied this pair intently, then turned to Jason. “I think that’s Bradley Cooper and his girlfriend,” I whispered nervously.

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In my dreams, I can breathe underwater. In my anxiety-crippled reality, I just discovered that a thing called secondary drowning exists. Yay! NEW WAYS (FOR MY KIDS) TO DIE THAT I HADN’T HEARD OF BEFORE.

We’ve been in Sydney nearly six months and there are countless “favourites” among our crew: the local, world-class zoo; Sunday morning ferry rides into the harbour for church; the amusement park fifteen minutes from our house; water views at every turn; late-afternoon trips to the beach. But one of my greatest thrills occurs every Thursday, when the local weekly paper is delivered to our mailbox.

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I’m sitting here at 3:30 pm local time, having landed this morning around 7, and I’m struggling to stay awake. Other things I’m struggling to do: not scream at my children every time they whine (which is, jet lag considered, OFTEN); not shiver (68 degrees Fahrenheit/whatever that is in Celsius is COLD compared to what I just came from); not feel overwhelmed by the glut of memories churned out over the past couple of weeks (and the depressive episode that is sure to follow them, and accompany my imminent adjustment period).

So what I’m going to do is give myself a break. A brief beat, to just be, and to think through all that’s happened over the last fortnight: countless conversations, endless wine, too many airport trips, myriad familiar faces parading gloriously through my frame of vision, one speech delivered without diarrhoea or other incident, a Broadway musical that brought me to sobs and haunts me in the best way ever since, a run around Central Park with The Sis, an MRI, rooftops and laughter, a book idea growing into a Real Thing and (even better) friendship to go along with the partnership, a hotel night with dear friends, so many dinners, communion and community. And something tells me I haven’t begun to tap into all that it means. Or remember the half of it.

Sartre said that hell is other people. After three days in a row of traveling (and a lifetime of other evidences), I’d have to agree. Then again, Sartre didn’t know my people. So it turns out he’s only partially correct. All due respect. So I’m going to sit for a few days with the memories of my people, American edition, and let it all take root. Also, I’m going to sleep. And–maybe most beautifully, and most raw, and most challenging, I’m going to sit with my main people–my man and boys–and get back into our life here. After a tough morning (for the love of God STOP WHINING, SMALL PEOPLE), I just spent an hour on the beach–our beach–with The Kid and Little Brother and hand to God, it was like, for that sixty minutes, all the exhaustion and frustration and irritation melted away and we just got to be with each other. We just got to be.

So I’m going to go do more of that. That, and the sleep. And then I’ll come back and word-vomit all over your asses.

Few things are certain in this world, but there is this: however critics feel about a movie, I will almost certainly disagree. There have been rare exceptions; the triteness of He’s Just Not That Into You, for example, pissed a lot of us off. Usually, however, I can be counted on as a contrarian. Such was the case with Passengers, which my husband and I saw in a theater with reclining leather chairs and a bar — hard to go wrong between those amenities and a Chris Pratt/Jennifer Lawrence pairing. I was delighted not to be the only one who enjoyed the flick and took note of its redeeming qualities.

A few weeks later, my husband and I returned to the theater, though now it was called the cinema, and we were shifted ten thousand miles from the leather-recliner situation, having moved to Sydney. It was our first adults-only getaway since we moved, so again: hard to take a stance other than Just Happy To Be Here. We saw the Will Smith vehicle Collateral Beauty upon recommendation from our older son’s therapist, whom we had flown over from the U.S. to help my son get acclimated to his new team, and who was also babysitting for us (so, you know, obligations). A couple of hours later, I had tears streaming down my face and a Screw you, critics attitude in my heart as I reasoned to my husband that saccharine overload has cinematic precedent: by all accounts, It’s a Wonderful Life opened to mixed reviews and only later became a classic.

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This past calendar year, known by many of us as 2016, was nothing if not controversial. Populated as it was by unexpected outcomes, celebrity demises, and global tragedies, the year stands out as, at the very least, memorable. And at the very most? Well, it may be the first time I’ve heard a quartet of numbers get accused of killing people. Who knew those four digits carried around a sickle and political machinations in their back pockets?

Whether the loss of Prince and Princess (Leia) ruined your year or just amounted to a footnote in it, overall apathy about the past twelve months has been in short supply. For my part, I was talking on the phone to a friend in late December who, after we caught up past our social media newsfeeds, told me, “Well. You may be the only person who had a good twenty-sixteen.”

Yes…and no. Which is sort of the point of everything, right?

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Be forewarned: some of the following content will make it sound like I recently graduated from the Debbie Downer School of Life Management. Read on at your own peril.

When I moved to New York in the summer of 2005, a few people remarked that I was brave. While flattered, I knew the truth: I wasn’t brave, I was desperate. What’s brave about a person who exhausts every possible option of safety before finally, like Jonah, accepting her fate and heading to the big city? Home no longer felt like home. It was time to leave, and so I did. Nothing felt brave about that–it felt more like resignation: no husband, no ring, no prospects? GET THEE TO THE ISLE OF MANHATTAN, SPINSTER! (I was twenty-seven at the time. It’s possible I was a bit melodramatic.)

When The Husband came home with the news that moving to Sydney could be in our future, I issued a hard pass. Contrary to over a decade ago, when I felt run out of Birmingham by bad choices, Atlanta had grown to be home. I didn’t want to leave. “God’s going to have to make it pretty clear if he wants to move our lives across the world,” I said smugly, knowing he would never do such a thing after we’d become a family there and were surrounded by more family and friends that felt like it. Meanwhile, God looked up from his heavenly knitting pattern, smiled sweetly, and proceeded to love me right out of my comfort zone anyway.

We’re here now.

I wrote in an email to a friend that I tend to front-load all the hard stuff when a big transition comes. There is no “honeymoon period” for me at times like this: I drop into the new comfort-free zone like I was issued from a war plane and land with a thud, laden with maps and strategies and luggage, and immediately upon touching ground I curl into the fetal position, paralyzed by my trees-for-the-forest mentality, undone by the weight of all I’ve determined there is to do RIGHT NOW. I take some medicine, say some prayers, check in with people who understand. Eventually (a day, this time), I start to uncoil from myself, look around like a baby seeing the world for the first time, realize maybe it’s not all a threat. It’s not all bad. The nausea subsides a bit. I’m able to eat and poop again. Inch by inch (or centimeter, if you’re Australian/nasty), I come to life.

In case you were wondering how NOT to manage change.

As big a fan of grace as I am, I tend not to be so solicitous with it in the way I treat myself. (Or, often, others, though that’s a post for a different day.) When our plane touched the ground I was relieved, and thrilled. The boys had performed magnificently on the flight, and–again–though I’m a big fan of grace, I still thrive on a great performance, especially when it is mine or reflects well upon me. Both The Kid and Little Brother had slept for the greater part of our transit. TH had held LB for hours and I had spent some serious cuddle time looped around TK, spooning like it was our job. The fourteen hours were the opposite of the drudgery I’d feared; instead, they were fuzzy-edged with sepia overtones, a testament to our family’s deepening bond and maybe even TK’s and my growth away from anxiety. A grandfatherly type seated behind me pointed to TK and said, “You have a great boy there,” then told me how TK had tapped him and whispered hello while the man was sleeping (thankfully, the man found this endearing). I watched four episodes of a disturbingly fantastic show. I ate and drank without expelling it through either main orifice. THE TRIP WAS A SUCCESS–MARK IT IN THE BOOKS AND POST IT TO INSTAGRAM.

Then, to reiterate, we landed.

Shit got real.

We got to our house–our home?–and ALL THE PLUGS ARE DIFFERENT. I had known this, of course, and we were even materially prepared for it, but that didn’t take away the sting. The layout was different from the house we’d just left. The drawers were in DIFFERENT PLACES. We had to unpack. The grocery store was small and had DIFFERENT PRODUCTS. We got back to the house and I remembered that PEOPLE HAD LIVED HERE BEFORE. I wondered about skin cells, if the tap water was drinkable. Our shipping containers had not arrived yet (they weren’t supposed to have). I felt…unsettled. TK started freaking out about the red-light-laden motion detectors and as his anxiety grew, so did mine. I felt tired and unmatched to the task(s) at hand. I wanted to go home, or for this to become home immediately, and neither was an option. I considered the fetal position, or escaping to the airport while my family slept.

Instead, I stayed.

I started counting moments, trying to treasure them in my heart. There was the gift from my newest friend waiting on our doorstep when we arrived: Matchbox cars for the boys that made them grin hugely and feel special, a bottle of wine (hell yes), a bracelet engraved GRACE (perfect). There were the continuing messages and understanding from friends back stateside. There was the time the boys and I had had on the deck earlier, they quietly playing while I lay on the couch and smelled the beach air that is just EVERYWHERE here. There was the sunrise through the plane window that I’d watched with TK, how I’d told him we were chasing the sun to our new home and he’d smiled, whispering it back to me: chasing the sun. There was his approach of the ocean–a brand new ocean–when I’d thought he would have run. There was every faithfulness in every second, even the ones when I didn’t feel it, the commitment of grace to me and to our family beyond our comfort and certainty and into a foreign country, to ten thousand miles and beyond.

I am not as adventurous as an escape to New York and a cross-world move may make it appear. I like to have my stuff where I want it and for no one else to touch it. I like for my plan to materialize the way I dictate it. I like to drive my car on the right side of the road and not nearly have diarrhea every time I make a turn. I like to hit the turn signal on purpose instead of the windshield wipers accidentally like some kind of DUMBASS. I like to not feel like a dumbass. I prefer, instead, to look put-together and adept. And maybe a little adventurous. And I’m none of those things, not really.

BUSTED.

I like for things to be easy.

And when I told one of my people this, she said the perfect thing from across the ocean, sixteen hours behind me (because sometimes you need reminders from the past): she said that if things were easy for me, for TK, for us, then that wouldn’t fall in line with all we’d been through. That’s not our story.

This is.

And because we sometimes need reminders from our past, Facebook showed me pictures from four years ago, when we’d spent New Year’s Eve helping TK recover from a surgery that ultimately wouldn’t work and would lead to another. I remembered that there are hard New Year’s Eves, and spending one in a beautiful new place feeling unsettled isn’t the hardest. Because of grace, I’m allowed to feel it, though–the pain of transition, the very real grief of reaching for things that aren’t here now, yet. But I’m also allowed to–no, get to–wait in that now and not yet and know that it won’t always be this way, that the waves that led us here will also make this home, even as part of our home will always be somewhere else, hearts broken and healing at the same time, the only thing unchanging being the grace that never lets us go.

I used to love how the carol “Silent Night” captured my image of the season: peaceful, expectant, hopeful. Then I became an adult, and a parent, and Christmastime became anything but serene. I found myself singing words like “all is calm, all is bright” while looking around at other faces, wondering, “Does anyone else believe this nonsense?” When God saw fit to give me my own swaddled baby boy–then another–I related to Mary more than ever and felt that someone must speak up for her, because if I know anything about Christmas with a newborn (and I do; my kids were two weeks and two months old, respectively, at their first Christmases), it is anything but calm and bright and heavenly peace is a vanishing vapor. So allow me to speak for the mothers (and Marys) of the world when I call BS on “Silent Night.”

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Just wanted to let you know you can all calm down: I figured out the Election of 2016.

Okay, maybe I didn’t “figure it out” so much as “choose the theory I find least disquieting among all the ones being thrown around right now.” The narrative of this election, after all, is being told and retold all over social and traditional media. There seems to be no escaping the countless voices clamoring to be heard, the opinions on why the winner won and the loser lost. One of the refrains that caught my eye early, though, and still sticks, is that so many votes were born of a sense of marginalization. Of feeling unheard and unrepresented. Of being an outsider.

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