A Lot Will Change In 2 Years – and it's OK

On cups, community, and goodbyes

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A few hours ago, I put my son on a plane and won’t see him again for two years. He will serve the good people of Liberia and I’m so proud of him.

I also feel a massive hole in my heart.

It’s been a whirlwind as he graduated from high school a month ago, packed up his room since we will be moving while he’s away (Where to? Unknown.), visited friends and family, ran errands, and otherwise tied up loose ends.

He has prepared for this volunteer church service his entire life and is ready.

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We’ve procured many supplies: lightweight shirts/ties/slacks, fans, a first aid kit, sandals, saddle soap, a wide-brimmed hat, hair clippers, microfiber towels, and everything else we could stuff into two 50-lb. bags. There’s no Amazon where he’s going.

Why did I not collapse into a puddle of tears as I held him one last time, whispering in his ear to love God and love people? How did I not run after him as he disappeared into the security line, freely offering my son on this altar? What kept him walking?

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I believe in the message and goodness he will be sharing, but more than that, I believe in him.

I have watched him, and my other three children, leave friends behind and make new ones, become confident and comfortable in places that were initially daunting, and make home in diverse countries across planet Earth. As we have entered each new place for 1-2-or-3 years, they have clung to each other, dug deep, stretched themselves, and each time they have emerged stronger.

This will be no different.

He will be challenged and will struggle. He will encounter difficult circumstances and people, weep for problems he can’t solve, and care for others more than ever before. The growth he–and we–will experience can’t be measured.

We get to talk to him once a week if he calls us and we look forward to hearing how things unfold.

Quenched

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In what has been a sacred and tender few weeks of being all together, the cups on the windowsill of our Airbnb have been occupied. I’m reminded of the hand-painted stainless steel tumblers I purchased several years ago in Mumbai: burnt orange with bright tropical birds, royal blue donning a majestic peacock, light blue with a wise sleeping owl, bright pink with a regal white elephant, and mine–yellow–with flowers winding around it. 

Sometimes they were placed in ascending or descending birth order, but mostly I liked to find them put back at all. Almost a decade later, we still use them not only to minimize dishes but to mark presence. If your cup was out–all lined up in a safe, simple row–you were home.

What is a tangible object that creates presence for you and your loved ones?

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As now three children have left, I have slowly placed their cups in the cupboard. When they come to visit, I text them a picture of their cup on the counter and say, “See you soon!”

Community

In addition to gathering with friends and family to send our son off, we have attended a wedding and a funeral this same weekend. Of the three families, none of us are at our home locations. In a borrowed church building, a canyon venue, and a friend’s backyard, I watched community gather from far and wide to mourn and celebrate together.

Community is built, one friendship at a time, over a lifetime. Many find their tribe in the same geographical area, and some–like us–craft theirs across shifting soils. Despite many international moves over the past two decades, we have built a strong community who will show up when called upon.

I don’t know what the next two years will bring for any of us, but I know that we will be wrapped in love through it all.

When I return home at the end of summer, I will open the cupboard and place one more cup inside. Sneaking a moment, I will get all three out to feel their smooth enamel in my hand and wish their owners were near. For probably forever, I will keep them at the ready, waiting to be filled.