Saying goodbye hurts. Some goodbyes are good and right, others feel like earthly tragedies.
Thom and I said goodbye to dear friends last night. As they are headed to the mission field in far (very far) away lands, we have come to understand the sheer joy of sending, the responsibility as believers of sending and also the sacrifice of sending those you love. They won’t really be back. Not in the same way. I felt pain as I hugged my friend. But I know she must go. It’s not easy to say goodbye to the truth speakers in your life, yet those are exactly who should go. Now we enter a relationship of mainly prayer. I will speak her name to our Father more often than to her face. This was a right goodbye. And it hurts.
And then the goodbye of earthly tragedy. Thom is off to say goodbye to his mentor today at noon. Cancer has reared its ugly head and is taking this 52-year-old in a matter of days. He’ll go straight to his heavenly Father’s arms. While eternity awaits us and reunions will be deeply sweet, our time without on earth is painful. I am praying today for my husband…his words, his emotion. The lasts with his mentor will hurt in a way that feels tragic. But I pray for a grateful heart for heaven today.
And then waking up to life. Atticus was kicking around this morning. Pure grace. I still have the headache from crying on Monday and we all have this funky cough/fever thing in our house right now. The kicking was refreshing. In my appointment with my midwife and her assistants yesterday it took 10 minutes to find his heart beat. 10 actual, long, silent minutes. And they tried and they tried. My main midwife finally jumped in, grabbed the wand and found it right away.
I waited to hear my son. I waited patiently to hear my son. And was missing Thom. With sick babies at home, he was needed there. He would normally be at each of my appointments. But I felt protected. Patience was protective. I didn’t know Atticus was alright in there until right before they found his heartbeat. He gave a kick. I had no assurance in the outcome of those 10 minutes. But I do in eternity. Camping at the cross is where we’ll be.