I moved to Dallas as a sophomore in college. After college, I stayed for graduate school. And after graduate school, I stayed because I didn’t want to leave. I bounced around various suburbs of Dallas before finally feeling settled in my East Dallas neighborhood. I loved everything about Dallas there. The hardwood floors of my apartment. The way the afternoon sun came in my windows. The short walk to Snuffers or Blue Goose or the short drive to the Arts District in one direction and Alamo Drafthouse in another. But I also loved Dallas for a completely different reason.

I loved Dallas because of the people Dallas held within her. The people who had become my lifeline and community. The people with whom copious amounts of tortillas and queso were consumed and time was never wasted. I told myself that only an act of God would move my feet from that place.

As it turned out, God was paying attention to what I told myself and an act of God moved my feet. This day last year I walked out of my M Streets apartment for the last time. I drove down Greenville Ave for some Top Pot Donuts and as I glanced at that skyline in my rearview mirror, I did the thing I swore I would never do: I left.

I have never doubted the act of God that pulled me away from my home, even though the year since didn’t exactly turn out the way I had hoped (I mean, who plans for a global pandemic?). I’ve found that some of the very things I loved about Dallas aren’t bound to a place and that joy was not halved, but doubled.

Rebuilding a community is hard, starting over in a new place is hard, a global pandemic is hard. This year has been HARD. It’s hard to rebuild your community when the community is isolated, and yet, it has happened in spite of it. Slowly, and with great determination, like a flower growing through a crack in the sidewalk.

The act of God that moved me from Dallas is still in motion, working and creating something brand new.