Goodbyes and the God Who Goes With Me

“What are you most excited for about Israel?”

People keep asking me this question and, honestly, it frustrates me. It’s a normal question to receive, of course, when one is about to spend three months studying in another country—but I still dislike it. I dislike it because it ignores the month of living—in all its busyness and celebration and sadness—that lies between me and boarding the plane. And I want the month in between.

Obviously, I cannot avoid the question and, truly, I don’t want people to stop asking, because asking demonstrates care. But leaving is hard and I wish that everyone had space to hold the hard with me, to acknowledge it and let it be there without saying things like, “But you’ll be in Israel.” Yes—and I will not be here. Any excitement is inextricable from loss.

It has been this way since the moment I received my acceptance into Moody’s study abroad program. I reacted first with celebration—I got to go! But instantly, the faces of all of those I would leave behind flashed before my eyes and my heart sank. I got to go—but going meant leaving. Going meant leaving them.

As the leaving has drawn closer, I have indulged more and more in the sorrow. Sunday night, I almost called all the girls on the floor into my room to sit with me. I felt like crying, and I wanted to be able to touch them, to feel the tangible weight of their physical presence beside me as I thought about how hard it’s gonna be to give it up.

The tangible, physical presence is what I will miss the most. Though often I shy away from their touch, there have been many days lately when there’s nothing I want more than to snuggle in beside them and feel their familiar warmth. Because soon, I will be gone.

In the grand scheme of life, one semester abroad is a small thing. I will return and I will be welcomed into the arms of my sweet friends again. But when I return, everything will be different. Israel will work its subtle flavor into my worldview until I cannot unsee the impact of it on my heart, and everyone who doesn’t go with me will be incapable of seeing through my eyes, no matter how many questions they ask. This goodbye means giving up the way things are in exchange for how they will be. And I love the way things are.

This particular brand of pain is not new, not for me and not for humanity. The first goodbye came with the Fall. Adam and Eve gave up the beauty of walking with God for the breaking of everything in their sin. They chose disobedience, and what came with it was banishment: They said goodbye to the Garden.

Goodbye to God.

Not all goodbyes are cursed. Before the first sin, God ordained for man to leave his father and mother and embrace the glorious change in marriage. And I believe my goodbye is also God-ordained. But the sadness in my soul echoes the severing that came when Eden closed, the loss of being fully present with the Lord and with others. There’s a reason I don’t want to lose these girls from within my reach, and it’s because I was made for with-ness.

The month in between me and leaving, the month that I so desperately want to embrace, happens to be the month of Advent. During Advent, we spend four Sundays remembering Israel’s long expectation of Christ’s birth, and we often focus our attention on that very special name of Jesus: Emmanuel.

God with us.

As I long to be with my loved ones and struggle with the sadness of knowing I soon won’t be, it hits me: Jesus knows the sadness of leaving. He Himself left Paradise, as Adam and Eve did, to experience with me the echo of Eden’s loss. He makes space to hold the hard of leaving with me, because He, too, has felt the severing between Him and all that He holds dear. He knows what it is to leave with the awareness that when He returns, all will be different. He still carries the scars to prove it. More than anyone, Jesus understands my pain, the haunting ache that comes with sin and death and goodbye.

On Sunday, I approached one of my pastors as he stood at the front of our sanctuary after the service, waiting for someone needing prayer. “I’m not here for prayer,” I told him. “I’m here to say goodbye.”

I confessed to him mournfully that I hated the thought of leaving, that in this moment it was more sad and scary than exciting to think of walking in the place where Jesus walked. And he nodded, his brow furrowed and his smile sad, and he held the hard of leaving with me.

“Let me pray for you,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, and proceeding to bring before our Father one of the most beautiful petitions ever offered on behalf. He asked that the trip would be exciting and growing and fun and beneficial for me, sincerely celebrating the opportunity. “But even if it’s not,” he told the Lord. “Even if it’s filled with sadness and fear and worry, Lord, I pray that you would be with Jessi.” There it was, the secret loveliness I got to carry everywhere, even when all other things were left behind:

Emmanuel went with me.

I made the rounds and gave a few more hugs, and ended up beside another pastor, who pulled me into a hug and said, “We’ll see you again at—Easter, right?”

I nodded. Yes, sir, at the celebration of the Resurrection, the ultimate Hello, I would be back to face all the newness of my changed perspective and my changed life. How appropriate. Emmanuel to go with me and the Risen Christ to greet me upon my return.

So what am I most excited for about Israel?

Seeing Jesus, and knowing His with-ness, deeper and deeper as I leave all other things to go where He still walks.