When the Nomad Is Asked to Stay

 

When the Nomad Is Asked to Stay

I didn’t realise there were people reading here.

That startled me more than it should have. Writing has always been my way of thinking out loud, of stitching meaning into days that don’t always make sense. But apparently, some of you have been walking along quietly, and I’m glad you’re here.

This year…

No, let me say it properly.

This year arrived like a storm and left like a miracle.

I planned. God laughed.

As usual.

Life has a way of happening while we’re busy drawing neat little maps. I had ideas. I had timelines. I had a caravan stand booked and my mind firmly parked in the future I thought I was heading toward.

And then God did what He does best.

He rearranged everything—without asking.

I got a job.

One I wasn’t looking for.

One I didn’t want.

One I felt wildly unprepared for.

And yet… I took it.

Because things like that don’t just fall into your lap by accident. They land there with intention. With weight. With purpose. It was an emotional rollercoaster, the kind that leaves you dizzy and praying under your breath, but I said yes.

And I love it.

Then, just when I thought the dust was settling, yesterday—two days before Christmas—I received a message.

Was I still interested in a flat I had enquired about long ago?

A flat that, back then, felt like a far-fetched dream. Almost embarrassing to hope for.

I froze.

This wasn’t my plan.

My brain was already living in caravan mode.

I don’t have furniture. I don’t have things. I don’t have a setup.

No worries, they said.

The flat is fully furnished.

Bring your bedding and clothes.

It’s affordable.

It’s walking distance from work.

It’s close to the shops.

It’s right next to my daughter—who needs me.

I sat there, stunned.

This was not my idea.

This was provision.

So I accepted.

I move in the day after Christmas.

And I find myself here, asking a question I didn’t expect to ask so soon:

What now, Nomadic Grandmother?

Here’s what I know today, and today is enough:

Nomadic was never about wheels.

It was about willingness.

It was about living lightly.

About holding plans loosely.

About trusting God enough to move when He says move—and to stay when He says stay.

I haven’t stopped being a nomad just because I’ve been given keys.

If anything, I’ve learned that obedience sometimes looks like unpacking.

God is good. All the time.

Not because life is predictable—but because He is.

I don’t know what 2026 holds. I didn’t know how this year would end either. But I’m learning to love that about this life. I’m learning to rest inside the not-knowing.

So for now, I stay.

Grateful. Awed. Slightly terrified. Deeply held.

And I’ll keep writing.

Because the journey didn’t end—

it simply changed terrain.