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The Goodbye Girl
by Camerin Courtney
June 28, 2006
I'm sitting in a Bulgarian train compartment bawling my eyes out. I'm not lost or intimidated by the burly conductor man who smirks at my awkward attempts at his language.
Rather, I'm sad. I've just said goodbye to Krassy, the 30something single sister who's been my translator and traveling companion for the past six days. She's communicated my teaching to a roomful of Bulgarian writers and editors, navigated me around Sofia using three different modes of public transportation, and even nursed me through a one-day bout with stomach flu. And in so doing, I've found her to be a hard-working, servant-hearted, kindred spirit.
Her final act of gracious service to me was getting me on this train for the next leg of my trip. And then we said goodbye. For now, and likely for good.
As I blow my nose for what feels like the 27th time, I'm reminded of how awful I am at goodbyes. And how parts of my single journey have felt like an exercise in goodbye. Romantic relationships ending. Family of friends constantly shifting as people move out of state. People waltzing in and out of my life and no relational anchor at home to return to at the end of each trip, each day, each change.
Knowing how poorly I handle goodbyes (it took me months to get over my last breakup even though I was the one who instigated it), I've sometimes asked God why he doesn't end the relational goodbyes and provide me a buffer at home—arms to comfort and welcome me, a space to call home at the end of each journey that isn't so empty. But the singleness persists, as do the goodbyes.
And so does the temptation to shut down. To stop letting others in. To go into self-preservation mode, avoiding new people and relationships knowing they also usher in vulnerability and risk—as many singles are wont to do.
But deep down I know that's no way to live.
Part of what's great about the single gig is the freedom to go, to pick up and minister in locations far and wide. And having more emotional and relational energy to offer the people we meet along the way.
I think of the impression that Krassy, as well as Daniela and Rumen and the rest of their ministry team, had on me. Their fingerprints are all over my heart, shaping and tenderizing it. Exactly what this sometimes-jaded singleton needs. In turn, they seemed grateful that an American would travel so far to invest in and encourage them. What an honor to be God's hands and feet and voice, helping to bestow worth and dignity in people so dear.
In the clickety-clack of the train wheels I whisper words to God, like the breath prayers I read about in an article before leaving the states. Bless Krassy, bless Krassy, I repeat, asking God to protect and provide for this sister who works so hard and lives so well in a sometimes-tough culture. And also I whisper Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, inviting him into the exquisite ache of meeting wonderful new friends and yet also holding them loosely. Sometimes letting them go.
As the train takes me farther from the city, the sky darkens and the starry host begins to appear. I stick my head out the window to get a good look, breathing in the humid air and marveling afresh at God's handiwork. As one who usually sees the sky from Chicagoland's light pollution, I forget what's hiding there all along. How breathtaking.
After we pass another tiny train station, with an agent standing out front waving a lantern to our conductor, I notice the fireflies dancing in the grassy ditch beside the tracks. Their lights blink on and off as we gather speed, creating a wonderful little light show in the quiet Bulgarian night.
Watching the display both below and above, I realize that some people in our life are fireflies and others are stars. Some come and go quickly, others remain constant. And our job isn't to choose which is which, but simply to marvel in the beauty of the light that God places before us each day—as wonderful and as painful as that may be.
The latest town is far behind us now; only the dark fields surround our night passage. My tears are dry; I'm all cried out. Engulfed in darkness and emptiness, I look up at those stars again, appreciating their constancy and the ever-present God who placed them each there. And just as it had to get dark for me to see them all, I realize sometimes I have to feel this relational void, this emotional blackness to be reminded of God's constant presence. To be grateful all over again that he promises never to leave or forsake us.
Somewhere in that dark Bulgarian field, important truths come into focus again: my empty apartment back in Chicago isn't home, marriage isn't a destination, we are all of us just passing through. We are all of us on a night train passage, alternately marveling at and weeping over the view.
Standing at the window, foreign wind rushing onto my tear-stained face, the great gift of travel and missions and risky new relationships comes to me: an anticipation for heaven. Where there'll be no more goodbyes, and where I'll be free to meet Krassy, Daniela, Rumen, and the rest for strong coffee whenever we want. Basking in each other's and the Father's presence. And where we'll finally, blissfully, be home.
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Copyright © 2006 ChristianityToday.com
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