Goodbyes and newness of life

 I just returned from a vacation that was as draining as it was life-giving. My parents are in the process of moving from my childhood home in Northern California to New York to be near me! This is good and exciting for so many reasons, but the purpose of my trip was the less good and exciting: the holy task of saying goodbye. In literature, the location of the story can be as much a character as the people, and that is definitely the case for Grass Valley, CA, and for my parents' house, in the story of my life and who I am. As my brother and I have talked about this big change, we have agreed that it feels in many ways like a death in the family, and we are experiencing the real grief that goes along with it. 

Saying goodbye to my dear friend Sarah,
with parents' pond in the background.

Three of my grandparents died while I was living across the country, attending college or grad school. And every time I returned for their funerals, I remember the sense of walking into the midst of the process of grief. I had my own feelings going in, of course, but had not been in on any of the arrangements. By the time I got home, funeral arrangements had been made, old pictures had been pulled out, and many memories had already been shared. I brought my own grief into the mix and we walked a part of the way together, and then I left again, leaving my parents to continue dealing with all the many end-of-life arrangements. 

My trip to California had a similar feeling. My parents have been processing this decision to move for at least two or three years already. Since they made the final decision in fall of 2020, they've been packing, setting up movers, getting rid of things - they have been totally immersed. Then I show up and suddenly something of which I have only been cognitively aware became Very Real: empty shelves, nothing on the walls, familiar things already packed. I stepped into a grief process that was already well on its way.

This was most obvious during my first three days, when we did a yard sale. Due to circumstances out of
our control, the yard sale was held during Holy Week, on Good Friday and Holy Saturday, an unthinkable prospect for a two-pastor family. Yet because of Covid, and all my church's services being pre-recorded, this was feasible (we also attended church seven times in three days - all of their church's service and all of mine! - which is such a Johnson thing to do). 

One small part of the yard sale

When the timing was first suggested, it felt so wrong, to spend the somber day we recall Jesus' suffering and death selling a bunch of old stuff to strangers. Yet as it turned out, I found this juxtaposition of events incredibly moving. Because it wasn't just selling junk to strangers. As we priced items on Maundy Thursday, I was filled with some of the love for which that day is named ("maundy" comes from the Latin for "mandate," referring to Jesus' new commandment to love one another). Nearly every item carried with it a memory of a beautiful childhood, in which I felt immensely loved, cared for, and surrounded with faith. The table linens and decor for so many family meals and holidays, art from world travels, well loved dolls, blankets and games, a whole stash of stuffed animals I was given when I was going through cancer treatments, books that opened new worlds to us, toys that had been lovingly made for my brother and me, tins that had held so many different batches of homemade cookies, the picture frames that held each year's school pictures, the outdoor kiddie toys acquired to entertain the grandchildren, potted plants that had helped make this a haven to return to during summers between school years and on vacation. I marveled at the emotional labor my parents had gone through in deciding to sell these things (I told them later how proud I was of them). Because there was truly so much love here. Love, and memories, of a pretty incredible life that has not been without struggle, but which fed and nourished us, and equipped us to raise the next generation in love. 

So that was Thursday. I wasn't sure how Friday would feel, once we started to see this stuff actually sell, once I started watching my childhood memories go home in the arms of strangers for less than $5 a pop. Would I feel each item like a stinging death of what once was? How could I not? Yet I was amazed that the feeling I felt was not sadness, but joy and hopefulness. We call this day Jesus died "Good Friday" because ultimately, it was good - this death was an essential part of God's life-giving rescue plan. That death was necessary because it led to resurrection on Easter. It showed us that nothing is more powerful than God, not even death and all our devastating endings; God will always bring life out of death. 

And in some small way, that was what I felt as I watched these items that had delivered such love in my life leaving with happy strangers: our time with them had come to an end, and it was sad and heart-wrenching. But now, they were going to new homes, where they would find new life and bring love to new families and bring joy to different people, in different ways. Similarly, my parents are leaving behind this beautiful place and its many wonderful people to begin a new phase of life. Like a snake shedding its skin, they are leaving behind some of the stuff and going into this new phase with all the memories but less of the weight. 

My beloved doll, Lisy

I believe with all my heart that while death is inevitable and often necessary, God always brings forth new life from death. Endings become beginnings. Sadness becomes hope. Loss becomes opportunity. Seldom does this happen without pain, and often it takes work. The labor of letting go is hard. At the other end, when my parents get to Rochester, we will all need to adjust and figure out how to live in the same town again while keeping our boundaries and expectations healthy, and this will undoubtedly have its rocky moments. That's to be expected, because well, new life is hard. Giving birth is painful. New life can be terrifying and amazing, just as it was on the Easter morning. But what excitement to see what comes next!

And don't worry: I did not let my parents sell my beloved doll, Lisy (LEE-see). My earliest memory is about this doll. Some old items, you've just gotta keep.

Here's to the next phase of life!