Lately, the conversations happening outside these walls have found their way into the quiet spaces of our family life, and I have caught myself looking differently at the two children growing up in front of me. One is a boy quickly becoming less little than I would like to admit. The other is a three-year-old girl still gloriously convinced that the entire world should know exactly what she thinks of it.

We find ourselves in a season of not yet. Not yet knowing where the next set of orders will take us. Not yet able to give a polished answer when asked, “So what’s next for you?” Not yet sure when the long-anticipated call will finally come. The “not yet” slips into our lives almost daily — in Bun’s hopeful guesses at the dinner table, in the bedtime whispers that stretch past lights-out, and in the way Beloved and I exchange that look which says, “Still no news?” without the need for words. Even little Bean, though too young to name it, senses the pause in the air of our home.