Travel Scribblings: Homeward Bound

For the aid of the reader, here are the new names that appear in this post:

• Larissa, Emilene's sister, who visited us the last week
• Livi, Delaney's sister, who greeted us upon our return

...

It was quiet and cold tonight, unusually still.

I sat down on the edge of the lookout and drew my knees up to my chest, watching Jerusalem breathe. I could see most of it from here: the Dome of the Rock, illuminated on the Temple Mount, and the City of David sweeping below it; the Mount of Olives with its three towers marking the ridge; the Hinnom and Kidron Valleys, sprawling across the landscape and meeting in the middle; and far to the East, the hills of Jordan, lit with their own cities and homes and lives. Heather stood at the other end of the lookout, learning to use the night mode on her camera, and we both fell quiet, listening to the night and letting our hearts express in ways that were sometimes more natural than talking.

In four more days, we would leave this place. I let the reality settle over me as I breathed in the scent of late spring, a scent that would freeze in my lungs when we crossed back over the ocean. It would be another month before Chicago felt this way. I longed for home; for weeks, I had thought of little else. But sitting here now, I felt the familiar sting of goodbye, again, and I wanted to cry.

When we arrived in Jerusalem, I expected to learn all about my past as a Christian, the heritage of my faith built into these hills. But I hadn’t expected to be so struck with my future. I surveyed the Mount of Olives again, and pictured for the umpteenth time the splitting of the sky over Jerusalem and our reigning King Jesus coming once and for all to claim His Bride.

I would come back here someday.

Home is so complicated, I thought to myself as Heather and I collected ourselves and began walking back to the hostel. Once, if you had asked me where home was, I would have had a simple answer, no matter how you asked the question. “What’s your address?” Same answer. “Where does your family live?” Same answer. “Where do you feel the safest? Where do you find your place and purpose?” Same answer.

Nowadays, it wasn’t quite so easy. I had three addresses—one at my parents’ house, one in Chicago, and one in Jerusalem. My immediate family had an exact location—but I was beginning to create family systems wherever I went. And my safest, most purposeful places fluctuated as I adjusted to the constant transitions of college.

In our final class, the Gospel of John, Dr. Peterman, our professor, reminded us often that every word had a semantic range, a variety of meanings based in context. Right now, I was learning the semantic range of home. Sometimes, it meant a five-bedroom house in the suburbs of Chicago, with people who had loved me unconditionally my whole life. Other times it meant right here in Jerusalem, with my three roomies in a shoebox of a room. And I stood in the middle of the meanings, torn in all directions and brimming with emotions, uttering as if it were the substance of my breath: “Come, Lord Jesus—take us home.”

...

Our last week was idyllic in many ways. It was as if God pulled out all the stops for us—beautiful weather, flowers blooming everywhere, and the whole city of Jerusalem coming alive for the festival of Purim. We were being sent out in style.

Our professors for the last session were gracious and parental and decided to cut class a day early to let us have our final day free. In normal circumstances, we might have all slept in, but it was a day to seize. Some of us wouldn’t be back until Jesus was, too.

We rose early and walked to a lookout for the sunrise. I breathed deep, letting the birdsong soak my consciousness. There had been a butterfly migration in the last two days and dozens of painted ladies flitted around us, symbols of change and resurrection. How fitting, I thought. Here on the edge of the ending, we were greeted with metamorphosis as a reminder that God never stops working.

Some of us returned to the hostel and I crawled back into bed, knowing it might be the last chance I got to snuggle underneath those covers. I remembered the days when I thought that bed was hard and unfriendly. Now, it had a space in my semantic range.

I woke up again just as they were putting away the breakfast leftovers. The hostel staff had left it out later today, knowing we would linger. The dining room was sunlit and filled with some of my favorite people. I came in smiling and content. At this moment, the last was far more sweet than bitter.

...

We watched the sunset on the Mount of Olives, weary in body and in spirit. I could tell by now that the enemy was intent on stealing our joy, and he was succeeding. I could hear the persistent demons of loneliness and comparison whispering in our ears and it made me want to cry angry tears.

It was a mercy, then, that we passed by the Western Wall on the way to dinner and someone suggested we go down one last time to pray.

The first time I had come here, we’d had hours to spare. I lingered but hardly prayed, struggling to muster up the holiness that felt proper for this place. That time, I’d been dressed for the occasion, covered from shoulders to ankles in modesty, and I had come in reverent.

Tonight, I came in urgent and dressed in shorts. My Jewish ancestors turned in their graves. But my prayer this night was real:

“God, help us! Don’t let Satan steal our joy!”

I swayed a little as I prayed, thinking of the Jews who stood here rocking back and forth to the rhythm of their chants. Here, prayer was a physical activity as well as spiritual—the Western dichotomy between them didn’t exist. God did not disregard my body when I came before His throne.

Neither did the Jews. “You have something to cover your legs?” A woman came over to where I was clustered with Emilene, Larissa, and Gena. She gestured toward my bare, chalky legs as she spoke, being herself covered literally from head to toe.

“No,” I said. I had known this was a possibility and obeyed when the woman asked me to leave.

Emilene followed, having also worn shorts. “I’m with you,” she said, with gravity. The Wall and the day had drawn up our emotions, and I detected something deeper in her words. It wasn’t simply an informative statement; it felt like a declaration of loyalty.

Studying abroad together was a tiny bit like going to war together. The thirty-nine of us had endured the same things, made the same memories, and established the same community. Moment by moment, we had built a family, from the ground up. It was a difficult endeavor, and success was sometimes elusive. Once it was within our grasp, we held on tightly. To say “I’m with you” was to claim a shadow of a covenant, an embryonic promise to one another that at the very least, what we went through today would be experienced together, whether bad or good. We would not forget what we had worked so hard to win.

After tomorrow, we wouldn’t get to say it to each other the same way again—but we would learn to say it in other ways.

...

We sat up with each other that night, sleepy and sad. A few people dragged their mattresses downstairs and we laid out next to each other, laughing quietly as a movie played. I worked out the knots in a couple girls’ shoulders and let them do the same for me, needing the touch. I wanted to be able to tangibly feel their nearness on this last night.

Our shuttle arrived promptly at 2:40 in the morning and we knocked on each other’s doors and carried suitcases and washed dishes in the meantime. This time, we would go without a professor. It was up to us to get each other home.

The severing had begun earlier in the day when Ben left for his summer adventure in Kenya while the rest of us were out. I’m sure someone got to say goodbye, but it wasn’t me, and my heart sank when I found out he was gone. He had become like an older brother in a small way.

Ella was headed to Europe with her family so she wouldn’t fly out for a couple of days. She rose anyway, to see us off, and she was crying as I hugged her goodbye. While the rest of us stayed together on that last bus ride, she went back to bed in an empty house. I knew it wouldn’t feel like home without us.

At the airport, we separated ourselves out according to departure times. A small group would go back to Chicago first, followed by a larger group. Dylan was headed to Switzerland, and Bryan and Jules would fly back to Colorado on their own. We stood in line in our units, denying that the goodbye was upon us.

The little group clustered at the front, ready to be brought first through security for their earlier flight. About halfway through our waiting, Emilene looked across at them and said, “I didn’t say goodbye to Meghan.”

I followed her gaze and realized the regret that would follow if we didn’t take the chance right now. “You could probably run over there.”

It took her all of ten seconds to weave through the serpentine straps that separated us from them and we watched as she made her rounds with hugs and deep looks of parting. “My turn,” I said, as soon as she came back, and I ducked under the dividers.

I came first to Grace. It felt wrong that we had to part here. Later, after she had slipped through security and made it to her gate, I caught myself anxiously looking for her gaze in the crowd. I had learned to find comfort in our shared, silent looks, and I felt a little lost without them.

We held each other close and strong for a moment. “I love you,” I said in her ear.

“I love you, too,” she murmured.

Next, I came to Jashubi, who smiled even though we both knew it was sad. His hug was brotherly and reassuring. We would see each other again soon.

I touched Meghan’s arm and she gave me a grimacing smile. “I’ll see you this summer,” I told her, ever grateful for the people staying in my state.

She nodded, grinning like always. I would forever be delighted by her mirth. “I’ll come to you and you’ll come to me,” she said, laughing a little.

“Yes,” I said, nodding emphatically. We would make it happen.

Mika was next and she gave me one of her grave and gentle smiles. I had written her a letter about how she felt like an older sister and, though we’d hardly spoken since she’d read it, I felt fairly secure in the fact that she’d accepted it. She wrapped her arms around me, motherly, and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Bye, sis,” I whispered, and she giggled, not needing to say anything in response.

“Nice to meet you!” Emi said as I reached for her, and we all laughed for her way of communicating what everyone felt to their core. It was much more than nice to have met each other, but her expression was a start at communicating the deeper truth.

I nearly ran into Kai as I turned to go back, and gave him a quick hug, thanking him for his friendship.

“Kai!” We both turned toward Emilene’s voice and saw her smiling. “Maybe today,” she said.

He smiled back. “Maybe today.”

They were speaking of the coming of Christ.

I let my eyes follow the little group through the passport check and up to the baggage counter until they slipped through the door and we wouldn’t see them again this side of the Atlantic. Bryan and Jules went through next, and then Dylan.

Now, goodbye was more bitter than sweet.

...

I slept for the first hour of the flight from Tel Aviv to Munich, and when I woke up again, the parting felt like a bad dream. My heart ached the way my body once had the day after a car accident—sore in places I hadn’t realized were affected. I kept hearing their voices in the voices of strangers. Every time I was roused from my dozing, I found myself looking for one of them, my heart pointed like a compass toward Mika or Meghan or Jashubi or whoever I thought I had heard. I dreaded waking up tomorrow, when all the goodbyes would be over and it would be only me in the bedroom, awash with loneliness.

Endings were good—they meant new beginnings. I remembered the butterflies and reminded the ache in my spirit that there was always good, even in the wake of loss.

...

Emilene sat down beside me in Munich, just before we boarded our second slight. I had just watched her give Sofie and Hannah lingering hugs and figured this was something like the beginning of our goodbye. “I’m not just hugging you because you saw me hug Sofie,” she said, putting her arms around me. “You were next on the list.”

“How did you know I would need you to say that?” I asked, hugging her back.

“Because I think the same way,” she said. “Anyway, I know this is one of the last times we’ll get before we get to Chicago and disperse, and I wanna be intentional about it.”

“Thank you.” We stayed that way for a minute, until our flight was called and we all had to pull our jet-lagged selves together—one last time.

...

We landed in Chicago just as the sun set. Our group initiated a round of applause. I looked across at Danielle, knitting my brows. It was almost over.

“It’s okay,” she mouthed, sympathizing. No matter how far or how long we were apart, we wouldn’t ever be losing each other for good.

We stuck close to each other in the customs line, grasping hands and tapping shoulders as we moved forward. It was rather miraculous that we could all feel such deep affection for each other even after twenty-four hours of travel. Nobody snapped. Nobody got overly frustrated. We had helped and held onto each other through the whole thing and here at the end, it didn’t change. Even in weariness and transition, we supported one another. This was what it meant to be family.

We got our bags and turned reluctantly toward each other. Nobody wanted to say goodbye. We doled out hugs in abundance, declaring over and over the value we saw in each person and the appreciation we had for their presence on this trip. Everyone had told us we would come back changed and that was true—but I’m not sure any of us realized how much of that change would come from the people. I was different because of knowing Sofie and Hunter and Danielle and Hal and the others. I saw the world and the Church through a new lens, and I would never be the same.

Having finished our goodbyes, we burst through the final doorway into the country and found our friends and families squealing in delight. Someone else went ahead of me and as the doors swung open, I saw my youngest two brothers craning their necks to see me. My heart lifted. Three months without them and finally, we were together again. I picked up the pace.

I made a beeline for my brothers, but I was stopped by Livi, one of Delaney’s sisters, and she pulled me into a hug. I smiled. Delaney and I had said goodbye before, but when Livi let me go, she came over again and hugged me deep and long. “I love you,” I said, meaning it.

“Love you, too.”

Heather called me over to meet her parents and I made thirty seconds of awkward small talk, all my emotions coursing beneath the surface. I gazed into Heather’s eyes and resisted the urge to reach for her again.

“If I hug you again, I won’t leave,” she said. “But I love you.”

I nodded and smiled my release. Soon. We would be together again soon.

The next few minutes were a whirlwind and I thought we’d all forget about each other—but we didn’t. My dad said later that we looked like we cared about each other, even in that moment. Not once until we left each other’s sight did we miss the fact that we were still in the same space. We blew kisses and called out goodbyes until we were completely out of earshot.

My dad had agreed to drop Gena off, so she climbed into the van with us and leaned her head on my shoulder as we rode. She embodied the progress I’d made on the trip; our relationship had grown in ways I never expected. My affection for her was stronger for the months we’d spent in that tiny little room. We were proof that love could be grown.

We reached her apartment and I hugged her goodbye on the porch step. “Thanks for doing that with me,” I said, holding tight.

“Yeah. It was fun,” she said, laughing a bit.

“I’ll see you sometime soon,” I said, using that precious, hopeful word again. It wouldn’t be the same, maybe ever, but I wasn’t so afraid of that with her. Everything would be okay. We would still be friends at the end of it.

And so we left it. I walked away with my dad and she closed the door. The new chapter had begun.

...

Later, Emilene read what I had written about our visit to the Western Wall and how we would learn how to say “I’m with you” in other ways. “And we’ll continue to say it in other ways,” she texted me, “over and over and over again.”

...

Today, I woke up and the loneliness wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be.  I washed and dried all the clothes I had worn. I unpacked my suitcase and put away my passport. No more adventures for now. It was time to rebuild home and family in small-town Illinois, where I could read grocery labels and speak to old ladies on the street in my first language, and theirs.

Still, every once in a while, my stomach clenched with a fresh realization that it was over.

The Christian life, I was learning, would always be transient. All the pilgrimage metaphors my parents had grown up with made sense to me now. No matter where I settled, it wouldn’t ever completely feel like home. I wasn’t made for this place—I was headed somewhere else. Everything between now and then was just part of the journey.

I came back to a funeral, for a woman who had adopted me as a granddaughter before I could know how significant that was. She had chosen to build a family with me, and now she was gone. Home. She got to go Home. I sat in the pew of my American church and wept for missing her and longing to follow.

“Come, Lord Jesus,” I whispered through tears, allowing the longing for Him and all His shalom to take root in my heart. Soon, He had told us, for He was patient and waiting for many to be saved. And the gospel was presented at the funeral and I think at least one person turned toward home as I sat there praying. He was not slow; He was moving, and He would make good on His promise to return.

Maybe today, I thought, as I ate with the grieving family and later as the jet lag caught up with me to remind me of the place I had left. It was our hope, the thing we held onto when the days were excruciatingly hard and when they were achingly joyful. Maybe today.

Maybe even today.