Beautiful Goodbye.

Yesterday. Last Sunday at Rising Hope.
All I can think of is, “Why was that so much harder than I had anticipated?”

I think it’s because I encountered a love that was unexpected.

Towards the end of the service, Pastor Keary called both interns to the front with him. Charles and I stole looks at each other from our place in the choir section, then submitted. We went with blushing necks and hunched shoulders and took our places beside the Pastor. We laughed as he showed a picture as “evidence,” against us, the culprits behind the toilet papering of his office. But then, as the laughter died down, something beautiful and painfully uncomfortable happened.

Apparently, there is an Order of Farewell in the services of the United Methodist Church. Keary had adapted this for Charles and I, and he began to lead the congregation through the service. My eyes cast about in my head like swivels, I think; I can’t remember staring at any one thing too long. But as that beautiful, oddly matched congregation of self-professed goofballs and screw-ups spoke their love for us, joy in our coming, and sorrow at our departure, everything sank into my chest at once.
And then it all rose upward to lodge in my throat. Come to think of it, it was sort of like a big mushroom cloud.

That’s a good descriptor for this goodbye. A tiny little atomic bomb detonating in my chest, then sending waves out into my body and a cloud up through my throat to mist over my eyes.

After it was over, Charles and I were given a moment to rebut during which I stammered and probably made very little since. I was just sort of overwhelmed and touched and blown light years away from whatever summary I thought I’d had of this experience. Everything. Sunk. In.
And now, I’m leaving it.

We took prayer requests, as usual. And as it turns out, a regular member of our congregation will end up homeless at the end of this week unless she and her husband receive a miracle. Hearing that, another bomb dropped. All of these people, working all this time to get people off the street and keep them off the street, and here one of our own is suffering the same thing? She herself was regularly involved in the food ministry, and I didn’t realize it, but she seemed to really love Charles and I. One more, I kept thinking. One more gets turned out on the street. It didn’t seem helpless or hopeless—it just seemed wrong.

“911? We have more babies.” (that’s an intern training joke that you probably will not get, but describes the situation perfectly.)

And then, after a special prayer for Carol and Eric, we sang “Let it Rise.” And a miracle happened. Despite the sadness of some of the congregants, despite being awash in mixed feelings within myself, we had a true, awesome, dancing and laughing worship experience. Dale’s little Brianna and Christopher stood in the choir with us, and Brianna sang at the top of her lungs. She put her arm around my back and we swung our skirts together and goofed off through the whole thing. I winked at Aliah and Tay-Tay on the other side of the room and they gave me shy smiles back.
And God said it was good.

Aliah and Tay-Tay scrambled up to me after the service. With hand on one hip, a perfect imitation of a grown woman, 9 yr. old Aliah said to me “You know you ain’t leavin’ without us!” And then she became a little girl again, scaling my body until she was balanced on my hip, arms and legs wrapped all around me. And I stood there and hugged her, never having realized that she took notice of my presence. Tay-Tay, who had come to programs even less than Aliah, also gave me hugs and asked sadly, “Why you gotta leave us?”
To which I replied, “I have to go back to school.”
“Why?”
“So I can get a good job where I can work to help people like they do here at Rising Hope.”
“Yeah…but you know, nobody wants you to leave…”
And I paused, and finally responded, “Well, neither do I.”

Both girls will be at camp all this week. So we had our final goodbyes there at church. I hated it.
I guess it’s how life goes, though.
And that’s how life will go all this week. Shoot.