A Hard Road

We do not have all the answers. We are on a spiritual journey. (A welcoming sign outside St. Martin’s, Canterbury)

I looked out the living room window. The sun broke through a flock of clouds that had been breaking up since the earlier evening’s rainfall. Rays of light covered the spectrum of colors generally reserved for the richest and ripest of citrus fruits. There was a burst of tangerine, surrounded by rays of orangey orange, limey greens, and lemony lemons. The display was truly radiant and spectacular, and one of the things I truly love about this part of the world. The colors were so vivid, and despite the many fires out West, I wasn’t catching any of those reddish browns that often accompany sunsets during the fire seasons. Nevertheless, the colors were gorgeous and bore witness to the One who creates all that is.

The beauty of the scene drove home ever more sharply the pain of grief that accompanies loss. In this particular case, it was the final night our daughter and her family would be in our neck of the woods for quite some time as they packed up, loaded up, and prepared to move away first thing in the morning. Her beau has been transferred by his company to another assignment located in Indiana. 

A couple of weeks ago their son (our grandson) made the move east, not so much to scout the region (as most twelve year olds don’t do that kind of scouting), but to get enrolled in and start middle school (about three weeks earlier than schools around here). So he’s been living with another set of grandparents, going to school, running daily in Cross Country, and is now, this weekend, anxiously awaiting what should be a grand reunion in just a matter of days.

The dying rays of the evening sun spoke much more eloquently than I ever could of the darkness that comes with loss. I want to fast-forward to the darkness that precedes the morning dawn, but that’s not where I’m at. Besides, morning will bring the grief of actually watching them back out the driveway in their car, following a brother in law and father in law who flew out specifically to help load the truck and drive it “home” for them.

The sun continued to dip below the mountain range just to the west of us, and I turned my attention back to the task at hand – the Last Supper. Well, not exactly like the more famous meal one reads about in scripture, and if everyone drives properly, probably won’t end up with arrests, trials, or executions over the next few hours. But it was our last supper together for now. And it was a simple meal of microwaved pizza singles (courtesy of Costco), some cool beverages, and the sharing of life stories of the “Remember when …” variety.

The time for bed eventually came, as it always does, and each took their leave as necessary. No one slept well, of course. Most endured the anxiousness that comes with knowing they had about 2,200 miles to cover as quickly as (legally) possible (and the restlessness of sleeping in beds that were not their own), while we being “left behind” had a future full of empty blanks coming up (birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, simple babysitting duties, school sports, etc.).

Morning eventually broke. The skies were lead-gray and weeping. Birds were snuggled in their trees and nests and making no effort to look for meals. After downing my first cup of coffee for the day, I hustled about the kitchen preparing a simple breakfast casserole, served with toast, butter, and a variety of jams. Family members rose and took care of their ablutions one by one. The adults packed up their overnight bags and loaded the vehicles. We continued lighthearted conversations as breakfast was served and consumed (and griefs suppressed).

Finally, time came to say our goodbyes. We know we’ll see each other down the road, so they weren’t really “goodbyes” but “see you laters.” We hugged and kissed, and waved final “I Love You” signs (used between members of the deaf community). As they backed out of the driveway, the rains stopped, but moisture – signs of a hard road – began to fall from other sources here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)