The Difference Between Leaving and Saying Goodbye

On my third appointment with my therapist I hit her with two big questions. The first I wrote about here. The second was this: how do you say goodbye?

Our denomination moves it’s clergy from place to place. They teach us how to leave but not how to say goodbye.

This discussion with my therapist was more complex. She asked: What were my expectations? Did I see saying goodbye as more emotional?

We talked about the directions we’re given when we leave an appointment. There is a detailed list about cleaning the house and packing. It goes so far as to say “label the boxes” (as if anyone would pack a box and not label its contents).

There’s another list with specifics to include for the people who will be following us. There is no shortage of information on how to leave.

But where’s the list telling you how to say goodbye? When do they tell you you’re likely to have feelings of loss and grief and that these feelings can come before you leave?

No one tells you that months after you’ve left you’ll remember a funny moment when you were there and laugh out loud. Or that you may have feelings of sadness or depression; that leaving is hard.

It’s easy to outline the tangibles; to make a to-do list for packing and cleaning and preparing the way for the next people.

It’s even easy to smile at your farewell reception. You’re going through the motions because you’re living on adrenaline and it’s reminding you of all you have to do next.

It was years before I realized that isn’t saying goodbye. I recognized I had learned some tricks along the way. If you didn’t get too close to people, if you treated them as congregants or volunteers and kept them at arms length then saying goodbye seemed easy. Only that’s not real. It’s superficial and you’ve cheated them and yourself from genuine fellowship.

Now, as we prepare for our last farewell as we enter retirement I want to know how I can do more than leave.

I’ve been journaling my feelings and trying to figure out this goodbye thing. As I worked on a draft for a blog post Emily Freeman’s name came up in my inbox with the subject line reading: 3 Simple Ways to Say Goodbye

There was no mistaking God was hearing my concerns and answering my heart cries.

I’m including the link to her article because you really should read it. We’re all going through goodbye’s of one kind or another so consider her words.

Here’s a couple of things that spoke deeply to me:

“Maybe one reason you’ve not been able to move forward into your next right thing is because there’s an ending lingering in your life that never ended with a period.“

It was Christmas break of my 8th grade year. I was enjoying school, where we lived and life in general. A day or two after Christmas my parents packed us up and we moved to another town. We would soon learn they left their life as ministers and would divorce. There were no goodbyes, no farewells. We just left. Almost 50 years later this is still a tender spot in my heart.

 As Emily writes, “the first thing is to put a period on the experience.“

“Don’t let the stuff outweigh the sacred.“

Photographs and memories help us mark special times in our life. They are the stuff. The sacred is the impact those moments and people had in your life. How did it change you or help shape you some way?

“The sacred things we mark from the ending will be brought forth into our beginnings, not necessarily because of an external thing we bring with us, but because of the person we have become.” 

I have viewed our retirement as an ending. When someone told me it’s the next chapter I corrected her and said it’s the last chapter.

As trite as it may sound it’s true that every ending is also a beginning. I’ve chosen to look at the ending without considering how it’s been preparing me for a new beginning. This is the space I need to give more thought. This is what will help me say goodbye without that unfinished feeling that lingers. It’s a hollow feeling when you fail to mark the sacred things from the time that was.

I know I’ve been changed from those surrounding me. I am full of gratitude for how they’ve impacted my life and given me more understanding of grace.

This is how to say goodbye: with a heart full and running over with gratitude for God’s gift of unending grace and His reckless love.

When the Bough Breaks

A friend of mind has often said, “don’t let them see you cry”. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard to hold back the tears, to keep the voice from cracking but my face tells all.

 

For years I did my best at blinking them back and blaming allergies and contact lenses for my tear-filled eyes. But then mama got Alzheimer’s and that seemed a very legitimate reason to let the tears fall.

 

I am a contradiction of tears and strength.

If you asked most people who know me they would describe me as strong. I’m not sure why but I’ve been told that and have tried to own that description. Maybe it’s because I’m not afraid to use my voice. I am passionate and that seems to speak strength. The thing is, when you care deeply you hurt deeply. I would never want to be described as an emotional person but the truth is, I am. I can look the part of strength but it only comes with the other side which isn’t weakness but caring.

 

The strength I thought I had broke wide open not long ago. The nursery rhyme of Rockabye Baby came to mind. I was in my cradle of security when the winds on uncertainty began to rock it. The winds were blowing from unexpected directions. What should have been gentle breezes sometimes had powerful gusts threatening to knock me over. For the most part, there was balance. Until a tornado swept in and the bough broke tumbling me and my cradle to the ground. 

 

The feelings of fear, doubt, and shame overwhelmed me. I was bent over sobbing as I told myself how I was letting other people down. How could I be so weak?

 

What I realized was that my security has been rocking a lot the past few months. We are looking forward to our retirement next year but it has brought a surprising display of emotions.  Grief brought on by change and fears of an unknown had become more than I realized and turned into a tumultuous windstorm that knocked me to the ground. 

 

I wasn’t strong after all. I wasn’t the warrior people thought I was. Tears show up unexpectedly and often. When I’m watching a television show, reading a blog post or seeing a homeless man on the bridge. I sniff them back and thank God my heart is full.

 

Something happened in the midst of my puddle of emotions. Strength began to stir when I recognized my limitations. I can’t do it all. I have limits that my despair has made me keenly aware. 

 

And that’s okay. The tears are okay. I’m okay.

 

Yes, my safe cradle has been rocked and at times I feel like I’m tumbling down. But it only serves to remind me that God’s grace is sufficient for me. His grace comes in the familiar. He comforts me a counselor’s wise words, and friends listening through my tears even though it makes them uncomfortable. 

 

Weakness is silence. But there is strength in our voice, even a voice trembling with tears. 

Happy

We played that song. You know, the happy one. The song that is humming through the background of everyone’s life these days? It’s bouncy and snappy and, well, happy. So we played that song in the chapel full of men, in their seats 5 minutes before our Tuesday night recovery meeting. This is when we play funny clips or bloopers or photo’s of them at a recent event or celebration. This is the time at the end of a long day they sit feeling a bit drowsy from a full belly from dinner and a fresh shower to wash off the work day heat.

I bounced and clapped and mouthed the words, hoping to coax them to be, or at least act, happy. Some returned the begged collaboration, some marveled (my interpretation) at my complete silliness, and bravery to display such and others remained unmoved. Externally at least. Unfazed, untouched, resilient to the ebullient mood around them.

 You can’t make me. Go ahead and try. And if you even make a dent in my heart I’ll not show it until later. Alone, when you won’t see you touched that part of me that was tender.

We can be made to go to meetings, get up at a certain time, stop at red lights and tuck our shirts in. We know the consequences of not following certain rules and we know the risks. But no one can make us happy. Our feelings can’t be mandated no matter how silly the person in front of you is being or how dang happy that song is.

Someone sat in front of us one day and said, “I just want you to be happy.” We weren’t sad, still, he felt he had the ability to make us happy. We ignored his statement. Until later, when a question went unanswered and I said, “You know what would make me happy? For you to answer the question.” He fell silent. Had he answered the question, my happiness was not in his hands. That’s on me.

What would it look like if we could make someone happy? For a moment, I suppose it would be fun. Smiles from everyone and that carefree air that often comes with the feeling.

But feelings flee and turn and faster than a snap of the fingers the bright bold color of happy is turned gray. That fast. Feelings are like that.

So I’ll take my happiness, thank you. I’ll be responsible for it and do my best to share it in hopes it can brighten the places I walk. But I know it’s your choice to join me or not. I know it’s just for a moment sometimes. Happiness is a feeling. But joy? Ah, joy goes all the way through the soul and stays there. Good or bad, joy is with me. Joy is more than a feeling. It’s a promise.

What does your happy look like? Where have you found your joy?

But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things! Galatians 5:22-23 NLT

Life: check

image from Pinterest

This summer has brought little in the way of travel but much in the way of journey. Two independent decisions are converging as my writing class and personal work collide. The personal work, having a friend meet with me to go deeper in some spiritual disciplines (commonly referred to as The 12 Steps) began before the class and one has nothing to do with the other. Except they do.

My friend sends me reading assignments and questions called “exercises” to help mine the personal truths these principles hold for me. Statements I’ve always believed but when rephrased, the belief is requiring more. The assignments are read, questions answered and turned in: check

Writing prompts are given in the class and I’ve responded with a new blog post: check

Birthday presents need to be wrapped for July birthdays at work, Sunday chapel needs to be planned and my kitchen floor is in desperate need of mopping: check, check, check.

The list of to-do’s becomes the list of “done” and it’s gone. Out of my mind. I’m moving on.

Until I realize I’m checking off life as if it’s another line on the To-Do list.

This is how I’ve moved through life. It’s how I’ve dealt with moving and parents divorce and not liking to be the new girl again and finding my way in a new town and kids graduating and parties planned and holiday meals prepared. They are “done”. Off the list. Celebrate the good times with hugs and photographs and brush off the unpleasant without so much as a feeling. Maybe a good cry in the shower where no one can see or hear or a little feeling blue day but time to move on. Just a check on the list of life.

I’m 56 years old before I realized this is how I live. How I’ve been living. To live like this leaves little room for feeling. It has worked this long, I told a friend. I don’t see the problem. And aren’t feelings a little over rated? (she says only kidding a bit.)

I smile and laugh loud and often and my heart is touched and my voice cracks and I’m feeling. People see me do those things. Those feelings are real. I don’t want to be the over-emotional, overly hormonal, woman who breaks down watching a Hallmark commercial. But life can’t be checked off. Not without missing it.

I want the abundant life Jesus gives. The life that is full and rich and deep and that means some of it will be painfully messy and some joyously raucous. The pain of my mother’s dementia and the pure joy of the belly laugh of our 5-year old granddaughter. I want to allow myself to feel both in the way each can be savored as gifts. Gifts of feeling life, life not alone.

Teach me, God, to breathe in this life as a gift from you. The hard, the simple, the unexpected and the longings of my heart. Remind me moments are precious and you made me, gifted me, with emotions to weep and laugh; to live life fully for You.