verb [with object] “fasten (something) securely in a particular place or position.”
All my life, I dug in my heels, clinging, white-knuckled, to whatever my “now” happened to be. That place, that age, those people. Change caught and tore me away, again and again, and I mourned each fresh transition, seeing always endings rather than beginnings.
I thought I was getting over my objection to change. But maybe its just that I’ve lived in one house for more than four years, settled into a steady role as wife and mother: the same street, the same grocery store, the same people in and out of my house.
But I still hate change. I have to fight to see newcomers as gifts instead of intrusions on my comfortable order. I am quickly overwhelmed by shifts in established rhythms. I panic at the idea of a new house — not a reality, just a discussion point at the moment — because for all the ways my home may fall short, it’s mine, and I know it and I’m comfortable in it.
But change comes, whether I will or no. My babies perpetually need larger shoes and longer pants, have more and more complicated questions. People shift in and out of our circle with their own rhythms. Administrations go out and come in. Things grow old, run out, need renewal.
There is only one place to fix my soul. One Person who will never change.
Of old he laid the foundation of the earth, and the heavens are the work of his hands. They will perish, but he will remain; they will all wear out like a garment. He will change them like a robe, and they will pass away, but he is the same, and his years have no end. The children of his servants shall dwell secure; their offspring shall be established before him.
He has fastened me securely into his family. He has made himself my permanent home. I am fixed here, in his hand, and I have his unchanging word that nothing — no change — shall ever remove me.
©Stacy Crouch 2021