PeaceMoms Blog

Tonight was a night I started looking forward to the second I marked it on my calendar, yet with a bittersweet anticipation, I dreaded its coming. Life is like that. Moments you can hardly wait to live out and yet fear their inevitable arrival. Time plays tricks on us. We want the moment we're in to hurry-up and get over with so we can get to another one. Then, when that one comes, we long for the one that's gone.

As is my typical Wednesday routine, I went to church. I pulled into the parking lot and stumbled out of my car with a somber gait. I'm a noticer anyway, but this time, as I walked toward the entrance, I seemed to observe every pebble in the cracked pavement, every barren branch on the trees, and every crookedly parked car. Though the brilliant spring sunlight exploded the sky, I saw it as an interruption to my private pain. My daughter looked up with an awkward but comforting smile and grabbed my hand, sensing something was different. I smiled back, with eyes full of tears. She was singing to herself and talking about the day, and what she wanted to eat when we got home, and I wasn't listening. Quite frankly, I didn't care. I was lost in a world of my own.

This was the last night our pastor would be with us.
He's moving away and I hate it.

I know what it feels like for him. I remember watching my Dad fight the onslaught of emotions that went with moving away from one church and starting another one. He would be tormented at the same time he was thrilled. I watched him weep over stories he wouldn't get to finish with people, yet feel a sweet relief that someone else was going to walk in his tracks, so he could make new ones. In the days before we took the last pictures off the wall and sealed the last of the boxes, Dad would tenderly approach me with a permission on his face, to see if I was okay with the decision he made to pull me away from my school, my friends, my sure footing. I would cry and ask why. He would hold me and cry too. I trusted him, even though I was terrified.
I wonder if Curt is feeling that way now. His children are small, but their struggle may be the same, even if just a little bit.

So, I was thinking about all this, reliving some of the most poignant memories of my childhood before I even opened the church door. Imagine what was ahead.

Then, the service started. This time some lamps and a rug decorated the stage. A few back-up singers, a shiny grand piano, a bar stool and one lone microphone with him sitting there, holding his guitar as if it was his dearest friend. My tears never stopped. I was caught somewhere between my childhood and an Amy Grant concert... between my deepest hurts and my greatest joys. Tonight was a night of stories and songs, where the preaching would be delivered through song lyrics and silent prayers, through warm smiles and memories of lives lived together in rich community. I wanted to be in this space. I needed to be in this space. It hurt. But, I loved it.

I just started coming to this church for a mid-week boost. I come alone. I sit alone. I use this time to invite Jesus to my quiet places and remind me of my inestimable value. I don't even know much about what goes on here other than these Wednesday nights, but what happens for me when I sit here transcends into every corner of my life. It heals what is so broken. It covers what feels naked. It wraps itself in a present just for me. And Curt has become this mysterious gift; a messenger of truth; a hug from the Savior. What will I do when its gone. Embarrassed that I feel this way, but I do.

So the songs came. Each one reminding me of the hope I have.

And then, I looked in the front pew at his wife. I know what she feels like too. I watched my Mom sit there. I lived out her story as well... her pride in her husband, her pain in her own unfinished business, her packing of another house wondering if what she has in cupboards here will fit in the cupboards there, her agony in taking the children to a new place and wondering how they'll weather the transition, her brave front, her rock solid faith. Oh, how powerful it was to live my life looking at a Mom like that and now to look at Jen carrying a similar torch. Stunning.

And what was most beautiful, was to look at Jenn looking at Curt.
I think this must be what heaven is. Delight in each other and confidence of the future. They were a picture of it. I wanted to trap that moment forever. She sings along with her man, laughing at his jokes and worn out tales as if she's hearing them for the first time. She has an expectancy on her face that he will articulate a new truth and bring her a new hope, even if the words are the same. She has a trust that is blind to whatever has been broken and hopes for whatever is to come. I know this is true about her. I know it for sure.

And then I thought about me. There I was.
Taking it all in. Sobbing. Worshipping. Hoping. Dreaming.
Sitting next to my Mom. She came with me this time.
We sat in that picture together and remembered together.
Our story. Their new story.
Knowing now, God does see us through. We do make it.
There is enough of Him to bring us to a new place.

Then, I thought about the love of my own man. The path we're on. The hopes I have for us. The grief over what we've lost. The love of the Savior who has carried us thus far, and the blind trust that He'll continue. Will we get to that sweet peace someday? I believe it.

Good-byes, at least the best ones, are always followed by hellos.
We get to see something new.
If we'll look for it.
And even though I stand in a bit of reluctance about this one, surely God has a world of new moments He's waiting to reveal just for me.
So good-bye Curt and Jenn, good-bye sweet children.
Be blessed on your way. And know that the trail you leave behind marked lives you can never count. We're finding other hellos to follow our good-bye to you.
May your next hello in your new life bedazzle you beyond your dreams.

Good-bye.