Those We Leave Behind

We've moved a lot. My daughter numbers it in the millions, but that was when she was tallying up all the factors that have aged me. I only look as if I've moved millions of times.  Still, I've found the most difficult thing by far about moving is not packing and unpacking, or closing and opening accounts, or even meeting new friends and learning my way around a new place. It’s the ones we leave behind.

The first move I remember was when I was a sophomore in high school. I was too young to recall any moves previous to that, so I was leaving my friends and classmates I’d been with since I started school. I moved from a tiny Maine town where I knew every student and every teacher and every neighbor, to a slightly larger town where I was anonymous and lost. I thought something was broken in me, I was so homesick.

When I married a preacher I thought I knew the kind of life that would entail. My father, a preacher’s kid, gently informed me of the challenges of ministry life. Still, I chose that man and that life. We've spent thirty-five years together thus far, moving around the country and overseas. I've become quite adept at sorting out, packing up and switching gears. But it’s increasingly difficult to move away and yet maintain the relationships that form through the years. So I've consistently looked for tools to help.

It used to be that people wrote letters when they were apart. One book I keep going back to is Letters of a Woman Homesteader by Elinore Pruitt Stewart. She was a young woman who lost her husband, went to Denver to support herself, and then moved in 1909 to Wyoming to work for a cattle man there. She ended up homesteading her own piece of land.  The fascinating story of her life is chronicled to a friend back in Denver. Her friendship with this woman remained firm because of such detailed correspondence.  My mother has letters I’ve written from Illinois, Nova Scotia, Maine, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New Zealand, New Hampshire and now, from Oklahoma.  I think if she put them altogether it would fill a book; definitely not a fascinating best seller, but those letters have kept us connected through the long years of separation. Nevertheless, I’m thankful I don’t have to rely on that slower form of communication.

When we decided to move ten thousand miles away to the southern hemisphere, it was understood that we wouldn't be back for four years. That was a daunting challenge, but a new cutting edge tool was just starting to emerge and we were able to send e-mails through a server called CompuServe.  We had fifteen contacts and we felt like we WERE the future! When our oldest son moved back to the States before we did, it was like being part of a sci-fi movie to chat with him online, in real time, without the crippling cost of long distance phone calls.

My daughter and her family live back in Maine, as do my parents, siblings, in-laws, co-workers and previous church friends. This has been a difficult move, to leave all of them behind. I don’t know how I could bear it if it weren't for Skype, e-mail and Facebook…oh, and that old device called a telephone.  I’m thankful for these technologies that help keep those ties strong and sure over the miles and months that separate us. As much as I admire those in earlier centuries who could wait months for some word or news of their loved ones, I’m so grateful that I have numerous resources for keeping in touch. We commit our loved ones to God’s care every day, and then we go on Facebook just to make sure they’re okay!

When we were transplanted overseas, I made an unspoken decision to keep my feelings to myself.  I wasn't going to love the people we met and worked with, so I tried to hold myself aloof.  My reasons: I knew it would hurt again if we had to leave.  But, surprise! They wooed me and won my heart and I fell hard for them.  I learned then that loving is worth the risk of pain. I've decided to risk my heart, wherever we go, because I’d rather know and love and miss the ones I leave behind, than consider my life without them.