A letter to my village

Four and half years ago,

I thought I didn't need you.

I knew I would miss you.

Miss you terribly.

But I could give you up to start an exciting adventure outside of you.

At least that's what I thought.

Thank goodness Heavenly Father knows me better than I know myself. 

Because He knew I'd need you.

He knew there would be long rotations,

away rotations,

80 hour week rotations.

He knew there would be overnight trips to the emergency room when Jason was 3 hours away because Lily was dehydrated from rotovirus.

Or days when I was too sick to care for my family.

He knew my mom's cancer would come back.

He knew I would experience raging postpartum depression.
He knew Jason would be on call some days and I'd have to be in 5 places at once.
He also knew that somewhere along this training journey, Jason would lose his faith.
He knew I'd need your listening ear.
He knew I'd need reassurance from you that it would all work out.

He knew I'd be lonely sometimes.

He knew I'd need a friend sometimes.

He knew.

I'm not sure how long into medical school that I realized what I would have missed out on.

But I was reminded over and over and over again:

You are my village.

Time after time,

you showed up for me. 

And my children.

Most of the time without being asked.

You text to check in.

You showed up with meals.
Or a gallon of milk when I left my wallet two and half hours away and we were out of groceries.

You offered child care.
You carpooled my kids to activities,
you drove them home when I couldn't be there on time.

You arranged girls nights to remind me that I'm not just a student doctor's wife,

who stays at home to care for the children, living in her husband's shadow.
You remembered my birthday.
You rallied around me when Lily was diagnosed with Childhood Apraxia.
You prayed for Jason to find his way
and then celebrated with me when, after so long, he finally felt God's love for him.

I mattered to you.
My family mattered to you.

You gave me that.

And that is a gift.

The tears stream now as I remember the selfless acts of service
you have ministered to me over the last 4 years. 

There are no real words I could say to define the humility and gratitude I have because of you.

No real way to tell you what you have meant to me.

Back then,
I wanted to begin a new adventure.
To create a new village.
But as four years of school humbled me,
{and hardened me}
the very depths of my soul mourned the thought of leaving.
For 18 months before commencement,
the longing to stay entered my mind daily.
Not only stay with you,
but stay here.
Arizona.
H O M E.

I cannot begin to tell you how difficult it was to keep resentment at bay.
This is not my dream.
These are not my goals.
This is not my career.
I do not WANT to move away from a home, school, neighborhood, church that I love.
It is a part of me.

I would drive on the freeway at sunset,
look at the pink mountains to the east and think,
"I'm going to miss those"

I would breathe deep after rainfalls,
closing my eyes and trying to sear the wet desert smell into my memory and think,
"I'm going to miss this."

My eyes would fill with tears as I attended school fundraisers, awards assemblies, performances and curriculum nights,
seeing child after child walk by whose faces I knew,
whose parents I knew,
whose mothers were my friends,
and think,
"I'm going to miss them"

A couple years ago, I took a step back from social media.
For a number of reasons.
But truth be told,
I was trying to protect myself.
To distance myself from you,
so that when it was time to say goodbye,
maybe the sting wouldn't bring to my knees.
I tried to avoid you at school or church functions,
so that maybe if the bonds weren't quite as strong,
I wouldn't leave here with a completely shattered heart.

But it was no use.
I still cried walking home from those school functions.
I still cried when I listened to "Remember Lot's Wife" ,
as I tried to have faith in God's plan.
I still cried after all of last year's "lasts"
Last birthday celebrated with girls dinner.
Last 1st day of school surrounded by all of you and your children.
Last Halloween walking the neighborhood with you.
Last primary program, listening to your children who I've grown to love, bear their testimonies.
Last.
Last.
Last.
Because of you, these lasts were painful and tearful and my heart ached through their entirety.
And because of COVID-19, a lot of those lasts were taken from me.
Maybe that was a blessing.
I'm still not sure.

Either way,
you have defined a part of me that will never be lost.
When I look back at this part of our doctor-in-training years,
I'll remember how hard some of these days were,
but I will also remember YOU.
And as we set out on this journey that I'm still not sure I want to be on,
I will hold the memories of this time of my life as sacred little treasures.

I know they say,
"Bloom where you're planted."
And I hope I can do that in the place I will call home for the next 6 years,
but it will never be the same as when I bloomed here.
With all of you.
These years have changed me.
Defined me.
And I had hoped in the time we had here before we left,
I could see you,
face to face,
give you a hug,
and tell you that I love you.
And that I will miss you.
And that you have shaped me forever.
But because I can't,
please take this post as my thank you.
Thank you for being my village.
Because it really does take one to raise a human.


Beautiful friends,
you have unquestionably "raised" me.
You taught me.
You nurtured me.
You were patient with me.
You were kind to me.
You reminded me not to lose my faith.
You loved me.

I am leaving better than I came.
And I owe that to you.
From the bottom of my heart-
T H A N K     Y O U.

And if you're ever in Tennessee,
please come visit.
And bring some of that Arizona sky
{and wet desert smell}
with you.

All my love,
Stacey