What it's Like to Leave; Living on Grace Lane

Foreword:  Preparing to leave is an odd endeavor for me.  You write out this massive list of things you need to do, unsure how long each will take.  You try to plan it out as best you can, never knowing if it'll work.  But you set out excited because you're starting to make progress.  Time passes, things are crossed off.  But unexpected additions come up as well.  And doubt starts to niggle you.

You wonder if you're doing this right.  And you get worried.  You begin to question whether you made the right choice to go to the park this morning, or visit that friend.  And then you feel guilty, and realize all the things you have to take off the list because it's not reasonable to think you'll be able to do them all.  You start cutting and pasting.  That lightens the load.  Relief.  But then guilt takes over again, because you're having to say no to good things, even necessary things.  And then you wonder why you didn't start sooner, or what's wrong with your planning skills.  But then you tell yourself, "It's all in God's hands.  I'm human.  It's about His grace, not my perfection.  And there is forgiveness.  And to some extent it's just the nature of the beast - moving across continents and lifestyles is not easy."  But it all leaves me feeling brain-dead, generally conflicted, and thoroughly uneasy.

But on to leaving...

Saying goodbye...hmm.  Dislike.

The last few days seem like a bit of a dream.  Friday I was in Philadelphia, swinging from my house on Grace Lane over to the Wilson's house, in a car, with bags of ice for a goodbye party.  The windows were wide.  KYW was telling me about the weather and the rip-tides at the beach following last week's hurricane.  I was sweeping off an old stone porch on a sunny, green block; greeting all my favorite people as they walked through the door; eating; talking; taking goofy pictures; telling tales late into the night in a cozy living room...

Saturday I was at home - the one my family's had since I was 3.  I went to Pennypack park for a gorgeous morning walk with Marcella in the forest.  I made myself a big breakfast of eggs, broccoli, and my favorite butter-slathered sprouted multi-grain bread from Trader Joes.  And I sat on the floor of the den for the rest of the day, tacking together my first quilt while the laundry washed.  Phone calls peppered the day - friends, prayers, last minute well-wishes.  And more quilting.  My mum and I didn't have time to finish before she left, and I was really hoping I could use it when I got back to S. Sudan as nights and early mornings this time of year can be chilly.  (Fleece is too dust, grit, and mildew happy.)  Quilting Queen Karen generously offered to help me put on the binding if I got the tacking done by evening.  So instead of packing, I was quilting...and getting rather nervous about that to do list.   

Late afternoon brought dear Kristen to my door, with a bag full of VERY IMPORTANT last minute things I needed to bring back to S. Sudan - things I hadn't had time to address, and Scooby snacks for my trip - all with a refusal to let me reimburse her.  I didn't know what to say.  So I cried.  I felt so undeserving.  I should have gotten this stuff like 5 months ago - but I hadn't, and now someone with so little time herself, sacrificed that, and her own paycheck...to bless me.  I felt beholden.  Not knowing how to accept it.  But I had to keep quilting...so there was no time to sort it out.  Just a bear hug and a wave goodbye.  

Getting the quilt done 'by evening' was optimistic.  Unrealistically so.  And since my eyes were beginning to cross at that point, and I could no longer feel my index finger, I took a break for dinner and my last evening stroll through the neighborhood - bottling the moon-tipped pines, the orchestra of crickets...the smell of grass and earth and the faintest hint of autumn.  (BTW - I highly recommend the evening walk with your thoughts and the Lord - powerful perspective-righting, peace-drenching treatment for stress.)

Sunday morning witnessed a groggy/butterfly-in-the-stomach start.  I dove into my Bible, and ran some of it off around the neighborhood before setting into the last hurrah of packing like a madwoman.  I hadn't expected the quilt to absorb the WHOLE previous day.  Nevertheless, clothes, books, vitamins, gifts, and a million other randoms were stuffed into three trunks and a duffel.  - Oh great, the duffel has a tear next to the zipper, and there isn't another right sized one in the attic. -  So...I moved seamlessly on to the blending of my last kefir shake with blackberries, took a breakneck shower, and dashed to church where Karen waited for me to hand off the quilt for her to finish THAT afternoon!!

I sat with Heather, and it was like any other Sunday.  Belting out songs, looking out on a sea of familiar faces, feeling at home, praying, listening, laughing about Rosemarie's ever-endearing Kids Life announcements.  Only it wasn't any other Sunday.  It was the very last of a sweet six-month long string of Sundays back with New Life.  And afterwards I ran up to the front to burst into tears and have Kurt pray for me since it occurred to me that I'm having a lot of trouble trusting God and believing that He's always with me and loves me.  Doubting that bedrock makes the prospect of returning to a lifestyle full of questions and challenges that boil all my insecurities to the surface, MINUS this church family of elders and advisers and friends who love me...scary.  

And then came the flood of friends, bearing letters and cards and last words.  And the flood of hugs and tears that flowed in their wake.  And the realization that all this comfort of being in a place where you are loved and love, where things are familiar and helpful, where you have resources and you know how to access them, where you know how to get around, and where you have a place...was about to vanish.  Not from existence.  But away from experience.  Away from my life.  You can hold on to the memories, and the relationships.  But it's just not the same as sitting next to that friend in church.  Or walking through that familiar park, or hugging your mom, or hearing someone tell you they'll be over in twenty minutes.  

Whatever it was I was feeling or thinking at that moment, I didn't have time to dwell on it because I had to say goodbye, get to Target, find a replacement duffel, and get home to pack and sort out the house so that by some miracle, I might actually make my evening flight to London.  Praise the Lord He smoothed my way.  There was one duffel in just the size I needed, and an extra lock.  Back it was to Grace Lane for the feverish dash to the finish.  And dash I did.  Finishing the laundry.  Cleaning up the quilting.  Putting away the sewing machine.  Organizing papers.  Shredding others.  Packing up trunks.  Pouring shampoo into travel size bottles.  Pulling sheets off my bed.  Filling out some last minute paperwork.  The goal was to be done with packing by 5pm, so I could shower, get the house in order, and be ready for John's arrival at 6pm to close up and drive to the airport.  

Yeah, that didn't happen.  What did happen, though, was that I wasn't close to done, and starting to panic when John showed up early.  He washed dishes, threw compost out back, shuttled canning bottles to the basement, went through the whole lock down procedure himself, weighed all my trunks, and took them to the car while I had a 3 minute shower (I'd be traveling two days until the next).  All with a smile on his face.  A half an hour late for the airport, sick with trying to get it all done, let alone process that I was leaving, John prayed for me on the sidewalk at the airport, and it was done.  A hug, a smile, a wave, and I was on my own, off for five more years in S. Sudan.  

*

I've always been glad I live on Grace Lane.  So appropriate, I think.  Not on Merit Lane, where I'm perfect and everything always works out because I deserve it and worked real hard for it.  Nor on Loser Lane where I can't possibly measure up, or I don't bother trying...and it all goes to pot.  But on Grace Lane, where I am me.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.  Where I don't measure up, but Jesus did.  And because of Him, my life is covered with unmerited favor.  I rail against it much of the time.  I think I'm better and I deserve good things.  Or I squander my time and opportunities with laziness or lack of care and can't accept the good things because I know I don't deserve them.  It's an art to live on this street.  To admit I'm not perfect.  To concede to the fact that I need help.  To accept things I could never pay back, even if I tried.  To live where the unlovely are loved, and the undeserving are showered with blessings, and where each circumstance sparkles with the savor of redemption.  What a gift.  I need lessons like this week-end's - to remind me where I live.  That even though I'm moving back to S. Sudan, my address never changes.  I'll always be living on Grace Lane.  I'm so grateful.  

Goodbye North America.  I shall miss you.  And an inexpressible 'thank you' to you who have taught me more of what grace is in these last, sweet moments.