Today, my son is spending his last full night in Texas. He's been there with my uncle and other family members for almost a month. I've been seeing the pictures my mom is posting, and we've kept up with all the ceremony of the event through text messages. This is the longest time he's been away from home and despite the hugs, kisses and photos, this will not be the last time he sees his Texas family. Goodbyes are sometimes like that. They carry more resonance because we want to preserve the moment. We know that the feeling of having our loved ones near us wanes after time, despite the phone calls, text messages and pictures. The smell of them around, the sound of their voice, the sound of their laughter--it all fades in time. And when it returns, it's the greatest sound we've heard. It's like picking up your favorite book, rereading a chapter and capturing that feeling of nostalgia within the pages. Every time my family visits Houston, it's much like this. It hurts to leave, and we make a mini-ceremony of the last day. But when I see my mom again after months away, it's just as sweet as when I was living there.
Some goodbyes feel like forever. On the various mission trips and work camps I've been a part of, saying goodbye is exhausting. We take huge group pictures and we hug the people who have changed our lives--all the while thinking we were changing theirs--because the distance between us feels so far. I have a friend that says he cannot wait to spend time with them in eternity. Human life is hard when you cannot keep all the people you love in one room. The families and friends I met in Oklahoma, Arkansas, Illinois and just recently in southern Ohio, have a special place in my heart and by knowing Jesus, my heart continues to grow. I think it grows to fit these special people in our lives, our loved ones.
I spent another week away from home on a smaller mission trip this last week in Wheelersburg, OH. The trip had its typical beats--the nights spent in a church classroom, aching mornings and dirty shoes--but the emotions and people you meet are anything buy typical. We were minutes away from a swollen Ohio River--thanks to almost a month of continuous rains here in Ohio--and surrounded by steep hills and tree-lined mountains.
We had a wheelchair ramp to build, and I began the week in worried anticipation. I have always felt that I am not prepared for work camp. I shy away from any kind of labor that demands the use of a tool. The thought of building a ramp with a group of junior high students had me second guessing myself. We did run into our share of obstacles--circular saws that skipped, running out of supplies, the rain that made the yard a soupy mess--but the main one was my attitude.
I had made the decision to leave the volunteer youth staff a few days heading into the trip. It was a difficult decision that I had been wrestling with for several months. My wife and I have been serving the youth in our church in some capacity for several years. Ultimately, it wasn't the forced conversations I sometimes had with the junior high kids on Sunday mornings, or the sense of frustrations I had when the same boys would rather play with bottle caps and Styrofoam cups than to actually open their Bibles that had me step away. These last few months have been spiritually dead for me. As I distanced myself away from my Lord and savior, it became increasingly difficult to serve the students, to serve anyone, without feeling the need to clean up my own self. Each Sunday, without the proper equipment of prayer or humility, I found it harder and harder to serve them.
On the last day, it became increasingly harder for us to finish. Our saw conked out, and the energy one has on Monday is all but gone on Thursday. The kids become more listless, as I did too. We found ourselves waiting for supplies, tools, wood, more water. Finally, it became time for us to make a decision on the crew as we were nearing the time for showers and dinner. At one point, my friend tells me, "I know you want to see this through," and I honestly wanted to just leave. Like literally drive off. That wasn't the goodbye God had in store.
There were 3 of us that finished it out. A good friend with a helpful knowledge of carpentry work, a high school kid who was our student leader and myself. We lopped off and edged up the corners, cleaned up the site and rounded off the edges. It was the best work I've been a part of in most of my adult life. With the attention we paid--we finished just before 8pm--we didn't get to take many pictures. My phone died and the camera was back at the church. Even the homeowners, who had been witness to the last day from the porch swing, left prematurely (her sister was having her 70th birthday party celebration). I find it ironic that on the day of goodbye, when we line up for the grand group picture, we were unable to solidify the memory in media form. We simply swept up the deck and made our way home. The satisfaction of goodbye would be for another crew that day.
The last Sunday I spent as a youth volunteer went much the same. My friend offered some very kind words, heartfelt, and there was clapping, lots of clapping. But in the end, I left the youth room like I do on most Sundays--down the grass onto the parking lot and back to the church to get the kids.
Perhaps that's why it doesn't feel like one of the goodbyes I mentioned above. This one feels more like a hyphen, a pause before the grand finale. I know that in mending my heart to serve my family, God will provide a path back into youth ministry. So I'm not going to share any pictures of fond farewells, dear reader. I will not quote my favorite book or end this blog on a philosophical question. My next mission is just ahead and it's nearer to me that a trip to somewhere else. It's home, my wife, my kids, my heart. God owns all the proper equipment. And I can't wait to get started.
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