I had no idea it would be this painful.
We’re in the home stretch now. The packers are coming tomorrow. The movers are coming on Wednesday. And I am having an emotional breakdown. Help!
Church farewells
Yesterday Lexie and I went to Evergreen Lutheran Church for the last time. I was doing the readings and Pastor Vera and the congregation were giving us a blessing for safe travels.
As soon as we walked into the Narthex, people kept coming up to hug us, wish us luck, ask about our adventure, and say goodbye. By the time we got to our seat in the second row, I already had a huge lump in my throat. When it came time to read, I could barely speak for the swell of unexpected emotion constricting my voice. I went up onto the altar and took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, this is very difficult,” I shared shakily from the pulpit. “This is our last time attending this church, and I’m suddenly feeling very emotional. This is a wonderful place and I really love all of you.” Then I took a deep breath, Pastor Vera smiled, and I began.
Her sermon was about answering God’s call and embarking on the journey even if you don’t know the outcome, trusting God and saying yes. From God’s lips to our ears!
More hugs and tears afterward, and the Piecemakers, a woman’s group that makes quilts for people in needs, gave us a quilt as a parting gift, which Lexie claimed for her own.
Aryk’s room
We got home and I attacked Aryk’s room. I took down the pictures on the walls, cleared out the closet, and transformed it from a cheerful bedroom that was my child’s home for four years to a sterile space of boxes and furniture.
That’s when the wave of grief really hit me. I suddenly felt horrible to be doing this to Aryk, and to Lexie – taking away their happy home, leaving them in a place of uncertainty.
Everything we have sorted and purged, every childhood pony drawing and too-small top and old Barbie video game that has landed in the trash or donation pile, has felt like a piece of my soul being stripped away. The cheerful painted masks from around the world have come off the dining room wall and been imprisoned in a box, and those memories feel boxed up with them. Same with the colorful montage of family photos in the hallway. The old Halloween costumes. The boxes of unwanted books. Traces of our family history, pulled away like a scab and carelessly discarded.
The pain in my stomach is real. The deep exhaustion I feel comes from so much more than hours upon hours of packing. It’s a psychic wringing out. I wish there was someone I could talk to about this, but I know no one on this planet who has made this kind of life-changing decision and told the story.
Bob
Except my husband, my partner in life, who confessed to me that he sometimes also stops and says, what the hell are we doing?
And that, somehow, makes me feel a little better.
