We just did that thing again. That thing where you wave at your dad from behind the glass, shoes off and boarding pass out. One or two children huddle around you, throwing backpacks onto conveyor belts and walking back and forth through the metal detector. Your husband waits for you on the other side, while you pass through security and from one life to the next.
On one side of the glass you are a daughter. On the other side, you are a sojourner; though, in that moment, you probably don’t feel like one at all.
I remember our first time. A baby girl on my hip and a little-boy-hand in mine. We left on a Sunday, a cavalcade of cars burdened with luggage and hopes, and a great deal of uncertainty. I pressed my forehead against the glass, the warmth of a sunny, late spring morning effortlessly pulling tears from my eyes. Turns out, even after four years of support raising, I was not-so-ready to forsake my Kansas home for Ireland’s green shores. My heart literally ached, threatening to break in two. A large group of saints gathered round us, hands on backs and arms, prayers lifted high by people I have known all my life.
I remember my mother’s proud cries, and my dad’s wave goodbye.
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I'm writing today at Velvet Ashes on how we say goodbye. Would love it if you joined me there.