(Digging into some archived journaling for this one. I wrote this from one of our furlough respites. The heart of a sojourner is tempered by the farewells--learning more about this everyday as the color and nuance of goodbye continue to augment my life experience.)
While perusing pictures online this evening, it dawned on me with a startling abruptness that many of the people in the pictures live in the very town I am sleeping in.
I perceive that I am VERY far away.
So often, my reality is that I cannot get to friends and family and events.
And I find that even when dinner would be possible or a phone call or running into someone at a store…
I almost avoid it.
Because the ‘hello’ will most certainly be soon chased by a ‘goodbye’.
And I’m still reeling from the last big one.
It’s like my grieving heart fresh from a weepy farewell to my family cannot bear even the most fleeting farewell in the aftermath.
So I avoid the connection at all.
And thus the perception (conscious or subconscious) that I exist ‘far away’.
I know that I must maintain the ability to connect—for the good of my family. For the good of my children.
This is one of those costs that I rarely read about before I departed 18 years ago.
I just knew that I was ripped and torn in hidden sacred places. And I lacked words to describe it.
I communed in that unique type of suffering with others whose eyes and tears and story spoke this same experience.
A like pain draws us to each other in unspoken ways. Anchors us.
Thankfully, so many who had weathered this particular type of grieving spoke faith and hope into my story. Reminding me of Truth.
So tonight. Cozy in a hotel room with my people and our own space, I choose to think about it. To accept it. To be willing to engage.
I am near to many that I love and cherish, physically. Father, grant me courage to be near them emotionally too.
Even for a moment.