Endings

Endings are hard.

When I wrote my first book, the ending remained frustratingly elusive, causing me to meander my way through plot holes and lurching character arcs until I figured out where I was actually headed.

Leaving the church I grew up in was hard. Breakups are hard. Moving is hard. Even finishing a beloved TV show is hard. (I'm looking at you, Supernatural.)

I'm coming to the end of my nanny job, and although I knew it would not last forever, the closing of this brief chapter is still hard. The pages are flipping faster, and I find myself desperately trying to savor each paragraph before it's gone. My son (C), the little boy we watch (B) and myself have all grown so much in the last year of doing life together.

It's been incredibly valuable for C to have another tiny human around to introduce the tough reality that the universe does not, in fact, have to revolve around him in order to survive, and that it can actually be fun to share and take turns.

It's been so valuable for me to focus on parenting, caring for and connecting with my son--and with B--at a slower pace without the constant distractions that come with running a household at the same time.

And of course, B has grown a lot in many different ways since being the tiny, wide-eyed baby he was when we first met.

When I first started looking for a job around this time last year, I had no idea the scope of what God had planned for me.

Our move to Salt Lake City had not gone according to plan; my husband's job offer fell through, the housing in the valley proved to be more competitive and expensive than we had anticipated, and our idealistic plans shriveled quickly in the dry, desert heat. So instead of taking time off from work to focus on writing my book, I began to look for a job that I could do while taking care of our son. Between that and my limited skill set, the field of opportunity narrowed considerably.

I finally decided to make a profile online to advertise myself as a nanny.

Before we go any further, I should probably introduce myself: I'm Camilla. I'm the youngest of three girls. Getting pregnant and having a baby was my biggest fear for the majority of my existence, even (and especially) while I was actually pregnant and having a baby. I've never nannied for anybody in my life.

The only qualifications I had to be a nanny was the fact that I had somehow kept my own kid alive.

I felt like an imposter.

Over the next few days messages came and went, but any interest fizzled pretty quickly. I didn't mind. I knew that since I was bringing my son, the quality of relationship with the family I would be working with was more important to me than just accepting the first offer that came my way.

Then, just three days after creating my profile, I got a message. "I saw your profile. Would you be interested in looking at my job posting? I think we would make a good fit."

The messages turned into a phone call, and later that same day I drove C and myself to their house for an interview. The next morning, I got my first job offer.

I accepted.

The first few days were hard--I'd forgotten what it was like to try to get a four month old to sleep in his crib. I'd forgotten how heavy babies get when I have to hold and bounce them for extended periods of time. And C had never had to share my attention with anybody like that before, especially not in a strange and unusual place.

I spent a lot of time holding them both.

The awkwardness of taking care of someone else's child while they were still home was only eclipsed by the awkwardness of not having anything to "do" while the baby slept.

But to my surprise, I found Bible verses on the walls and Christian study books on the shelves and worship music on the TV. In a city with a less than 2% population of Bible believing Christians, I'd happened upon this family who was actively trying to live out their faith outside of Sunday morning church.

It was then that I began to realize just how much God had blessed me. Soon, work became more than just work.

It became a home away from home, where my son felt happy and comfortable being himself, and I felt peaceful and safe listening to worship music or Christian podcasts while the boys were sleeping.

It became a family away from family, where C and B could play together like brothers, and us moms could share and commiserate and cry and laugh and pray for each other.

It became a place of healing for my impatient tendencies toward my son. Nobody likes losing their cool at someone else's house, and I began to realize that maybe I was stronger and kinder and more patient than I let myself be in my own home.

It became a place of connection in a very isolating season away from everyone I've ever known.

It became a place of growth, of worship, of love, of joy, of sadness--of life.

And although there were days when I cried, there were so many more days when I laughed.

And although there were days when I felt like a failure as a parent, there were so many more days when I bathed in encouragement.

And through it all, I'm learning so much about God and what his attitude toward his children really is (but that's a subject for another post).

I only have five more days with B. Five more days of hearing his joyful squeal when C and I open the door and see him. Five more days of soaking up the hugs, the giggles, and the adorable babytalk. Five more days of feeding him french toast and bananas.

I don't know exactly what God has in store for me after this season ends, but I can say with confidence that he will provide everything I need--and then some.

If you've ever known the bittersweet taste of endings, consider leaving a tip and sharing in the comments about a time when you had to leave something. I'd love to hear from you.

Be sure to subscribe to hear about C and me on our next adventure, with a smattering of fiction thrown in just for fun.