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Moving

I do not like change.  I do not like it in a box, I do not like it with a fox.  (Although how either of those things would improve a situation is beyond me.)  If I had to choose between suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or taking arms against a sea of troubles, I choose nope. No. Thank. You.


And yet.
A visiting pastor this summer spoke on Psalm 23, a familiar and beloved section of scripture.  The sermon reminded me that I am to identify with the sheep.  The sheep that trusts and follows her shepherd.  (By the way, why is shepherd not sheepherd?) The sheep may get real comfy in her current pasture, but the shepherd sees so much more from a human’s height, and has greater wisdom regarding the best place for the sheep in each season.  The shepherd ultimately chooses the pasture.  He makes me lie down in green pastures.
God is once again leading our family to new pasture.  Or in this case, an old pasture.

We are moving.  Yes, back to Oregon!  Yes, for Mr. Cyrus’s job.

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