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“Are you sad to be leaving?”
A friend and coworker asked me the question on Friday.
I thought about the question. Sad? No. Perhaps I should have felt more sadness but the emotion wasn’t there. Most of my emotions weren’t there. The night before, I had stayed up late at the little house, packing up all my clothes into a few boxes. I was trying to figure out what I would wear in Oregon, what I would wear in Texas, and which clothes I would need to navigate the social scene of holiday parties that will start happening in a few weeks.
“No, I’m not sad.”
She frowned. I think she wanted me to express some sort of grand emotion. One of my wild displays of expression. But I wasn’t feeling it and I wasn’t going to lie.
“To be honest, I’ve been living so much in the day to day that I’m not processing emotion.”
It feels so strange to put on the page. But it’s true. My life has been so wrapped up in the day to day. The finishing up work projects, figuring out where I’m sleeping that night, and making sure I have my inhaler on hand at all times. The little things in life. Everything else I just leave up to God. Which isn’t that bad of a plan actually.
I’m living in space. Intermediary space. The moment between things. For me, the transition period where I’m not in one place nor fully in the next. It isn’t a foreign feeling. I used to call it feeling like a ghost, flitting between worlds and belonging in neither one. But now I know the proper name. Intermediary Space.
On Monday, my goal was to survive the day.
On Tuesday, it was to pack up all my things (totally didn’t happen).
On Wednesday, it was to make it through my going away party (which was beautiful and full of beautiful people, every last one of them).
On Thursday, my goal was to pack for my trip to Portland.
On Friday, it was to make it through my last three hours of work, my last lunch, and boarding the plane to Portland.
I hadn’t processed emotions.
It’s only now that I’m sitting down and sorting the emotional baggage that I’ve collected in the last two months. The fears that I’ve stuffed. The anger that I didn’t want to admit existed. The excitement about what the future holds. The hellos, goodbyes, lasts, firsts, and everything else that has gone on in my relationships.
But overwhelmingly, the emotion that is emerging is gratefulness.
I’ve been blessed. Embarrassingly so.
My lines are falling in good places. Even though my bronchitis is lingering, I have medicine and now the opportunity to sleep. I have a new job that I’m excited about in a city that I adore. I have people in my life that are amazing. I have family that loves me, friends who like me, and so many good things cropping up on the horizon. I can look back and see that when I was the most frustrated, God was the most faithful. There were things that happened that could have derailed me. But instead, I learned that all is grace. That tolerance is a two way street and love is an every moment choice. That the way of Jesus is so much harder than the way of the church and casual Christianity. That being a Jesus lover means more sacrifice than to simply be a religious person. That forgiveness can be a hard pill to swallow and that God works everything for the good of those that love Him and are called according to His purpose.
Looking back, I can see where I’ve been undone and redone at the same time. The unraveling of life that happens in gentle tugs and firm yanks. The rebuilding as truths have been knit into my soul. The long nights of trying to get my lungs to work at a steady pace – the swelling of the chest to cause me to relax instead of doubling up in a coughing fit. The angry tears of frustration. The early mornings of meeting with God. Coming once again to the realization that God is good. Not in an abstract way, the way we so often learn sitting in pews, but the flesh and blood real way that can only be learned in those bitter dark hours that are destroyed when His faithfulness bursts through like the first rays of the sun surging across the prairie grasses, lighting them up as if on fire.
For now, I live in the inbetween. It will not last forever, for that would be my doom. It will last two weeks. Long enough to catch my breath, get my bearings, and then venture out boldly into the next adventure.
And that’s a beautiful thing.
