I froze in front of the refrigerator.

I had been moving at a high, efficient speed. My friend was watching our two older boys, and the baby was asleep. It was time to pack. But then came the task of taking down the photos and art from the fridge, and it brought my momentum to a halt.

Three months ago we pulled in late to this driveway, unloaded our meager belongings with the help of friends, and set up camp. Not home. Very intentionally, we chose not to hang up photos, and to hold off on buying a new bed for the boys. Boxes would remained packed in the garage.


For their sake, we needed our boys to know that this was temporary. So that when we move into the next house, and unpack their toys, hang framed memories on the walls, and setup their new bed—they’ll know it in their hearts–That we are home.

These past three months have felt excruciatingly temporary. Transient. Uncertain. And at times, quite lonely.

The heart of our family has ached for a place to call home.

And yet, as I stood before the fridge, carefully taking down photos and art projects, I saw it. I realized just how much life has taken place in this very short season.

From our family adventures into the mountains, to quiet mornings at the kitchen table; watercolors guiding our creativity, and mountain breeze flowing in from the open door–this season has changed our family.


We’ve celebrated two brithdays. And we’ve lost a child.

We’ve grown friendships, and fed the homeless.

Our little boy made the newspaper. We sat by a quiet road and watched a moose meander his way through a pond. We drove all day to behold the Collegiate Mountain Range.

My husband and I have sipped wine while watching the sun descend behind the mountains, dreaming together about what is next, and celebrating just how far we have come.

We were longing for four walls and a spot of green grass to call home—all the while Colorado was etching the letters “Home” onto our hearts.


So many memories have quickly woven themselves together into our hearts, establishing this place as home. This short season has been riddled with difficult days. Overwhelming emotions. Uncertainty. Doubt. Fear. And heartache.

And I am amazed to stand back now, looking over these past few months, and to behold just how much life they represent.

Three months hardly seems long enough to make its mark as a significant piece of  person’s life. And yet here we are.

Sometimes it is these short seasons—often the very difficult ones— that foster the most growth within us.

Those lonely seasons, the ones that hold heartache, and cast a shadow of doubt upon your plans—it is these seasons that show us who we are, and how much we need this loving God who will hold our hand and pave the way before us.


Maybe you’re in the middle of one of these short, uncertain seasons. Or maybe it has been a long one. And yet you find yourself standing on the brink of what is next; balancing between two seasons.

May we never step forward into the next season before pausing to think back on the one we’ve just walked through. Let us stop, take account, and see what this season had to teach us; and the growth it performed in our hearts.

Let us appreciate it in all of its rawness, for the emotions and unexpected hardships, for the glimpses of beauty and the subtle reminders of why we chose this path in the first place.

Let us take a sacred pause, and give thanks.

And then let us step forward.


Eryn Lynum is a speaker and the author of 936 Pennies: Discovering the Joy of Intentional Parenting. (Bethany House Publishers, 2018) She lives in Northern Colorado with her husband and three boys, where they spend their time hiking, camping, and exploring the Rocky Mountains. She loves to travel and share at conferences, churches, and writers’ groups. Every opportunity she gets, she is out exploring God’s creation with her family.