I hate goodbyes; their possibility is an albatross that hangs around my heart.
When I was very young, my family went to visit my brother and his girlfriend. As people moved quietly about his tiny apartment, the air was heavy and my throat ached. I pressed on my eyes to ward off tears. I was relieved that no one spoke to me because I couldn’t have gotten a word out without crying.
Unbeknownst to me, my brother and his girlfriend were breaking up. No one had mentioned this prior to our visit, and I am still astonished at my powerful reaction to the unspoken. But by that point in my young life, goodbyes were common, and I was overly attuned to endings.
When I left a job at my children’s school, our youngest son
became distraught because he thought he would never see me again. I understood how he felt.
Goodbyes knock my world off its axis. I become anxious about life’s cycle, questioning even the most certain fixtures of seasons and tradition and time. Nothing feels sure.
In my shock, I fixate on all that I cherish — as if a single loss can destroy normal, requiring me to rebuild it, moment by moment.
In my work with children, there was a time when I had become shell-shocked. I had absorbed other people’s pain so much that my worldview was grim. I expected the worst of mankind, and a caring Creator seemed an oxymoron.
Thankfully, I was offered a job that not only gave me more time at home, but also shifted how I worked with kids, lessening my exposure to trauma. I welcomed the chance at a different life, to rest, to be home, to refocus.
This good fortune felt unnatural. Discussing my new job, an acquaintance said to me, “Well, you’ve paid your dues.” While certainly nice to hear, the idea that I had somehow earned this didn’t set right. I couldn’t help but think of all the people who work hard, who want more time with their kids, who might never get a similar shot. I couldn’t reconcile this opportunity with something I had done.