The Suitcases at the Door.

Chapter 1: The Weight We Carry Isn’t Just in Bags

Sitting here, I look at a basket of clothes and begin packing them into bags. Plastic tub drawers have replaced furniture, and even folding clothes into them feels degrading. Like a reminder that I’ve failed my children, that I let villains rewrite our lives. Even after speaking up. Even after saying “no more.” I chose to protect myself, protect my sons and somehow, that choice cost us structure, routine, stability.

Every shirt I fold feels heavier than it should. Not because of its weight, but because of what it represents, another day without a real home, another reminder that my children have lost more than a roof over their heads. They've lost the comfort of consistency. And still, I press on, organizing their socks, counting uniforms, tucking what little we have into old bags that have been opened and closed too many times. I want them to feel like this is temporary. But I know they feel the truth. And the truth is, we’ve been living like this for too long.

Chapter 2: The Denials I Didn’t Expect

I’ve done everything. Applied for homes. Inspected spaces. Prayed over floors that might become sacred if we’re just given a chance. But denial after denial echoes like rejection of not just my application, but of our right to belong somewhere. I imagine a home where my boys can be loud. Where they can stim freely, dance without fear, cry without being told to shush.

Each rejection feels like a punch to the gut, not just because we need housing, but because I’ve given everything I could to prove I’m doing my best. Proof of income, glowing references, heartfelt letters... and still, it’s not enough. I’m not enough at least, that’s how it starts to feel. I watch my boys try to make any place feel like home with their toys and routines, while I hide the ache of knowing I can’t promise them that this time we’ll stay. I never thought giving them a safe space to grow would be the hardest battle I’d have to fight.

What hurts even more is that I wasn’t alone. I had the resources. I had advocates. People from agencies, case workers, and support teams that have called real estates, writing support letters, even offering connections and vouching for my character. And still, the door kept closing. No one could understand why we weren’t catching a break, it was like the system wanted me to drown quietly, no matter how loudly I screamed with paperwork, persistence, and proof that we were worthy of more.

Chapter 3: Three Sets of Clothes, Two Pairs of Shoes

Each time I pull their clothes out, I notice: they’ve worn this twice already this week. They only have three outfits. Two pairs of shoes each. How did it come to this? And still, I remind myself, they are fed and they are warm. They are loved.

I’ve been here before, memories burned into my history, sleeping cold, alone walking all night, clothes on my back, praying for a warm home that never came. I never wanted this for them. I swore they’d never know the taste of that kind of hunger, physically or emotionally. So, I’ve lived my life ensuring food was on the table, that bills were paid, that they had what they needed, even when it meant I had nothing left for me.

I’ve mastered the art of sacrifice. Sale shopping, bargain bins, lay-bys for birthdays. I know how to make five dollars stretch like fifty. I can turn nothing into dinner and making my old shoes last longer than they should. But when my boys ask if they can wear their favorite shirt again, and I hesitate because I’m not sure if it’s clean, that’s the part that stings. Not because they complain. But because they never do. Because even they’ve learned to live with less while I keep pretending, we aren’t quietly surviving. There have been so brave, I am proud and disappointed all at the same time to watch my boys deal with this.

Chapter 4: When the Suitcases Feel Like Shackles

I remind myself that maybe this isn’t punishment, maybe this is God’s pause. Maybe He’s not saying no. Just “not yet.” But the waiting is heavy and it makes me question if I’m doing enough, if I’m strong enough, if I’ll ever be the example they need. I’ve tried so hard to heal. To rebuild. To stand in the light instead of the shadows of pain. But tonight… tonight I just want to stop holding it all together.

Still, this doesn’t mean I stop. It doesn’t mean I stop praying or seeking help and guidance. It doesn’t mean I give up. I’ve walked through too much darkness to stop believing in the light. Even if I don’t see it yet, I keep asking, keep knocking, keep hoping. Because one day these suitcases will be empty and not because we’ve run again, but because we’ve finally unpacked for good.

Affirmation

I have not failed — I have fought.
I have not broken — I have bent to carry what others couldn’t.
This season is not the end — it is the stretching ground before the blessing.
My love, my presence, and my persistence are more than enough.
I am not lost — I am becoming.

Prayer

God, In the heaviness of uncertainty and the quiet ache of waiting, be my anchor.
Wrap my children in comfort when I cannot give them answers.
Let every bag packed be filled not only with clothes but with grace, protection, and hope.
Where doors have closed, I ask You to open one that cannot be shut.
When I am weary, remind me You are holding us.
When I doubt, whisper truth into the silence.
Thank You for walking beside me, even here, in the in-between.
Amen.