As I was putting my oldest, Oscar, to bed we were talking about Shasha coming for Thanksgiving. He asked when she would arrive, what we will do and when she will leave. I told him her plane will leave early Saturday morning while he is still sleeping. His face changed, he did that hard swallow thing that he does when he is holding back tears and his round cheeks reddened. He could barely make out the words "I'm going to be sad when she leaves." I reminded him that the visit hasn't even started yet, that Shasha and I will be sad too but we shouldn't let that ruin our fun time with her. It was enough to get him to sleep. He has a hard time with things ending and saying goodbye. Before he started kindergarten he was worried about the long days apart and was excited when I told him his brother and I could come and have lunch with him. We did that one time. He was so upset about having to say goodbye that he could barely eat because he was holding in tears the whole time. He asked me to please not come for lunch again.
I feel for him. I have the same struggle though in a less dramatic way. The lessening of the emotions due only to the unwilling practice of them over and over again for thirty six years.
And now, after a teary drive away from our last home we find ourselves living in a city that is far more transient than any place I have ever lived. Me, the woman with the same two best friends I met in preschool and a whole group of close friends picked up during grade school that I keep in touch with almost every day (thank you group text), the woman who still gets emotional when I see a rerun of a favorite show's series finale and the boy who gets sad about endings before beginnings are living in a military town where good friends will be gone in a couple of years.
And not just the military friends. When we came here for the interview the search committee had so thoughtfully planned a dinner for me with a group of ladies they thought I would enjoy. I did enjoy them very much. They were wonderful and I was thrilled when I realized that the pregnant woman with little kids who made me laugh with her self-deprecating humor and honest sharing was in fact the church musician's (organist, choirmaster, etc) wife. I was relieved to know that I got along so well with someone whose path I would inevitably cross many times as my husband was interviewing for the job of rector (senior pastor). We became fast friends and our families soon found in each other a place to be ourselves, to speak without fear of offense and find ears of understanding through similar positions. When they told us they are moving all we could do was understand. We have been there, we just said goodbye to a wonderful community and congregation not too long ago. We get it. We are there for you. But it sucks.
I was talking to my good friend about this some days later. This good friend is an Army wife so as I am spilling my guts to her and bonding with her I am also acutely aware that her's is the next goodbye. She has moved many times and so she shared her wisdom. She told me about finding ways to enjoy the present even if it will end. To dive in and give of yourself even when you know you will have to one day peel yourself away. The acceptance of impermanence. Very Buddhist and also very Christian (all those hard passages when Jesus is reminding us of the impermanence of life and the permanence of God).
This is life. Human beings are uniquely aware of our end. We all know how it goes. Death. No exceptions. And yet we are taught and perhaps instinctively told to fight for our lives and the lives of others, hold on to each moment, dive in wholeheartedly and embrace life. It is a battle of not letting the end ruin the beginning. Especially when, from everything I have experienced and learned, the end isn't actually so bad.
The last time we said goodbye to my mom was at the Cleveland airport. It was outside of the entrance and Oscar sobbed into her arms. She hid her tears but cried along with the woman smoking a cigarette by the trashcan next to us. It was heart-breaking. I rubbed his hand and gently wiped his tears as we made our way through ticketing. Security, finding our gate, setting down our things, trips to the bathroom and then I took a picture and sent it to my mom. It was a picture of Oscar and his brother running around the rows of seats giggling. Resiliency. Thank God for that.
Truth is, we were made for this life. We were created for a life of hellos and goodbyes and even when we think we can't ... we can. Years ago I found myself on a couch in an office with candles and calm colors. I had finally forced myself to see a therapist for what I now see was postpartum depression seven months after my youngest was born. I unloaded. All of the dark thoughts, the fears, the internal analysis, frustration and confusion. I paused and looked at her afraid she would say I would be stuck in this forever and the person of joy I used to be was forever gone. She sat there with her perfectly styled hair, nice clothes and pen and paper and looked me right in the eye with a genuine honesty that penetrated my soul. And she said "you are going to be ok." I burst into tears. It was exactly what I needed to hear but didn't know it. I still get tears in my eyes as I remember it (even sitting here in a coffee shop surrounded by strangers). Resiliency. She knew I had it ... and she was right. I know my son has it which is why I can hold him as he cries and know that he will be fine.
Life can be hard, but we humans are pretty amazing creations.
Very amazing. You and your family are amazing. Thank you for this. Love you.
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