Lasts

The grief of leaving hits me at odd times.

Josiah just turned twelve and got bacon for his birthday. He was thrilled. And I was wistfully sad to think about how this is the last birthday where anyone will be excited to receive bacon or Pringles or Coco Pops as birthday presents.

There are times when leaving feels like a relief. My job is stressful, often, these days. I am unfailingly determined to finish well, to complete the projects I started, to invest all that I can into this school I adore. People ask me what I want to do next year and I say, I really just want to plant flowers and get to know my neighbors. Do I have to get a job? Because I am tired.

But then I sit here in my office at school, and see the frangipani tree blooming outside my window, and the football games going on behind it. In a few minutes I will go out to watch Lily’s game, and I will see her play with girls she has grown up with, many of them with her skin tone and all of them with a million shared memories. I’ll sit with the other moms and we’ll cheer them on with the expanse of the Indian Ocean as our backdrop, sweating together underneath the wet-blanket of November mugginess.

I relish this place, this moment, this feeling. And I grieve.

Sure, this won’t be my last football tournament. But next time it will be called soccer, and I’ll be surrounded by people I don’t know but who know each other and have their own sub-cultures and millions of shared memories that don’t include me. I’ll have Costco granola bars and fruit snacks in my bag instead of home-popped popcorn; I’ll probably be wearing a jacket. I won’t be known; I will be another new face, the one with the odd story of living half her life in Africa.

Everything is a Last this year. The last time I’ll get to ignore Halloween. The last fourth Thursday in November that will be a work day; the last Thanksgiving I’ll celebrate on a Sunday. The last time I’ll hack up a pumpkin to make pie (because who wants to do that when you have Costco???). The last air conditioned Christmas.

Each day is a Last Day. I think of that often–Today is the last November 9th I will experience here. This week is our last Pamoja Week. Our last International Day will be this Friday. It will be Number 16 for us. How will I live my life without International Day? I guess the same way that I’ve lived sixteen Thanksgivings without celebrating on the fourth Thursday of November. Part of my heart has always been somewhere else. But I am used to that by now.

What’s ironic is that in August of 2012, I wrote a post called “The Year of Lasts.” It was the beginning of Gil’s last year as chaplain at HOPAC. We knew we would be returning to Tanzania after a year, but our role at Haven of Peace Academy would be as parents only. After spending ten years of our lives breathing and bleeding HOPAC, we were moving on. I had no intention of returning to be on staff and I grieved leaving that life. Three years later, when the way opened widely for me to return, it totally took me by surprise. So in these Lasts, I rejoice in the icing on the cake–that I got to come back and work at HOPAC for three more years that I never thought I would get.

So I guess I need to be reminded that last is not always Last. Our God is surprising. After years and years of saying good-byes that I thought would be permanent–and weren’t–I’ve learned instead to say, “See you later. The world is small.”

There’s a blessing, though, in knowing that each day is a Last. Many don’t get that privilege–loss and change often come suddenly, without a chance to say good-bye, to finish well, to savor the Lasts. So the grief reminds me to slow down and savor what I do have today. Because that’s how I should be living my life anyway.