(the long version)

A year ago, our family embraced a piece of scripture that is changing our life.

Isaiah 58 says

“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?
Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe them,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the LORD will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.

“If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.
The LORD will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

“If you keep your feet from breaking the Sabbath
and from doing as you please on my holy day,
if you call the Sabbath a delight
and the LORD’s holy day honorable,
and if you honor it by not going your own way
and not doing as you please or speaking idle words,
then you will find your joy in the LORD,
and I will cause you to ride in triumph on the heights of the land
and to feast on the inheritance of your father Jacob.”
For the mouth of the LORD has spoken.

We held it close, and wrote it over and over. We talked about it at dinner and argued it over coffee. It began to seep into everything we did. And one day, the idea of living in a huge home while others had none, or letting a snowboard sit unused in the basement when its worth could feed a family for a month, it began to seem very ridiculous. We didn't need so much, and wanted to give our excess to the hungry, the poor, and the oppressed, rather than maintaining our stuff and supporting a lifestyle we didn't really care for.

In January, we decided to "lose" a thousand things, and one thousand less was born. (In September, we reached one thousand things. By October, it was up to two thousand.)

A few months later, someone I deeply admire gave me The Dangerous Act of Loving Your Neighbor by Mark Labberton. Labberton views the crevasse between spirituality and social change as a failure of the human heart. We are not moved to justice because our hearts are sick; we don't care enough to do anything because we don't grasp the fullness and depth of Jesus. These sentences are not doing it justice, but this book has been like a hand on my shoulder, leading me around toward what is right and true and good.

We decided we needed to re-orient our lives, but we weren't sure what it would look like.

We considered downsizing in our same neighborhood, which we love. We thought about buying tiny places in both Denver and Los Angeles. We looked at acreage in San Diego county to build a commune for our extended family. We talked, read, prayed.

(I am deeply grateful for the grace in this, because just before taking Isaiah 58 as our family verse and doing one thousand less, we were about to sell our home and purchase this, a 2,300 square foot monstrosity in a planned community. It would have been very nice, but probably not very fulfilling. Only a technicality with our current home kept us from moving forward.)

As the months ticked by, we felt a strange sense of disquiet, of electricity, that we were both moving toward what was right, but squirming in the present reality that wasn't quite there. Once you identify what you want, living apart from it gets less and less comfortable. We weren't sure exactly what we were moving toward, we just kept trying to be faithful, and kept going.

Then one day, in the Smoky mountains of North Carolina, where our family nestled together after several states of travel, it happened. Ron was in the pool, splashing with the children, and shouted across the water, "What if we just stayed close to family and traveled for awhile? Like, indefinitely."

"Really...?" I called back, too excited at the prospect to say anything else.

"Why not?" And all of the reasons not to suddenly seemed very insignificant. It echoed everything we value, and resonated with us very deeply. It allowed us to be more generous, to invest more deeply in family, and to raise our children in the rhythm we had always wanted. And besides, Ron reminded me, we were all really good travelers.

Over the next few months, we decided to give away nearly everything we owned, sell our home, and do what we love.

We list our home for sale in the next month, at which time we'll set off for California. We hope to spend several months with family, after which we'll be nomadic for an indefinite stretch. In January, we leave for our first trip, and hope to be in Thailand, Japan, and South America over the next two years. In between, we want to honor our families and spend as much time with them as possible.

This decision is both peaceful and exhilarating. It gives us joy every time we think of it.

But it's bittersweet, too. We had become certified as foster parents, and had hoped to welcome children into our home. This is is a hope we are setting aside for at least the next year. Our home has been completely renovated, and is now very close to perfect. We'll miss it. Ron stepped down from his job for a role with less responsibility and more freedom, and I'll be doing far less of the cooking that's such a big part of my life. We are invested in our community, and we love our friends. It will hurt to leave them. And I would be dishonest if I said that getting rid of everything is easy; it isn't, not at all. But when we consider a chance to love our families more tangibly, to embrace the world in freedom, and to give more, the sacrifices make sense.

We're not sure what it will look like, but we're really, really excited. Thanks for reading our story and being a part of our journey.