Goodbyes are a good thing.

If you told me four years ago that I would still be in school, missing the friends that have graduated and dreading losing the ones to graduate in just a few weeks, I would have laughed at you. I would have laughed at you and claimed that I don’t make friends like that, friends that last. Four years ago, relationships were a thing that lasted for a little bit and then stopped mattering as time went on. Four years ago, I wasn’t even that close with my family.

Something changed when I started having to say goodbyes.

Goodbyes.

We’ve all had our fair share. Goodbye to friends. To loved ones.  To people we would miss. To people that we were happy we would never have to see again. Goodbyes are a part of life, just as hellos are an unavoidable component of the human journey.

Goodbyes bring with them an air of finality. They signal the end of an era, of a meeting, of an acquaintanceship. Or they function as a “till next time.” Regardless of their purpose, goodbyes invoke emotion, whether that emotion be intense or neutral.

I’ve had a lot of hard goodbyes. But perhaps the goodbyes that hurt the most are the ones that never end. The ones that drag, that last. The ones that you keep trying to get out of your chest, but time or the other party don’t let escape.

I’ve always liked finality. Definition. I like terms to be clear. I like to know what is expected of me and what to expect from others. I do not like not knowing what is coming next or when what is will end. I have long accepted that the world does not ever cater to this desire. Life is in a constant state of flux. What is expected or known to be true can change immediately.  There are some things, of course, that don’t change. That the sun rises, the earth turns, and Greenville drivers don’t know what a turning signal is.

Technology has given us the ability to never say goodbye. I can, at any moment, engage a complete stranger in parts unknown in conversation about the subplots of an online work written by a teenager in her pajamas. I can chime in on the financial state of the United States while eating a gallon of ice cream with a shovel. The Internet has given us the tremendous ability to connect with people across the globe. But when technology gives us something, it always takes away.

Sometimes the thing it takes is a good thing. Like running water takes away waste. Or like vaccinations take away diseases. But the advent of constant global connectivity has taken away our ability to say goodbye. In this age, I can still talk to people that I have not seen in years. People that I may never see again. And while this may be a good thing for good relationships, it can also make the heart yearn for some form of definition and finality.

Even if that definition is not the heart’s desire.

I like knowing where I stand. With people. With information. At weddings. I like to know what is going on around me. And I like to know how to escape. Some days I miss being able to walk away from something and that being that. But then I look at the people I love. I look at them and I think, “Oh, how great to live in an era where my loved ones are only a few finger taps away.”

But there comes a time in every relationship where we must say that final goodbye. The trick is to know when the end has arrived. It’s a hard thing, in this decade, to truly cut ties with someone. There’s an art in a well-said goodbye. But even the bad ones, the sad one, the odd ones, are better than never saying goodbye at all.

A hope deferred

Everyone has desires. Things that they want. That they think they need. Whether it be a dream job, a relationship, a night’s sleep. If you’re living, you want something. Desire never really goes away. In itself, it isn’t a bad thing. I desire lasting friendship, herbal tea, and fine coffee. I want good sleep, good food, good instruction. I also have desires that are less than wholesome and entirely wicked.

On its own, a desire is relatively harmless. It’s when that desire has the possibility of fruition, the chance to be dwelt on, to be expressed that it becomes truly dangerous.

I came to college in Fall 2010. I started off as a Journalism and Mass Communication major in a four year program. I was set to graduate it May 2014. May came and went, a summer passed, and instead of finding a job in my chosen field, I returned to school for a fifth year of training. It’s my own fault. I didn’t work hard enough, didn’t ask the right questions, didn’t check and double check every little thing. I wanted to graduate in May. But that didn’t happen. I wanted to graduate this December. I had everything worked out. I thought I was going to be finished. I had hoped that this would be my last semester. When I realized my new course, my heart stopped beating and I stared dumbly at the computer screen before texting my family.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

I realize that there are people who have seen and experienced far worse than me. I have seen and experienced far worse than this. I don’t intend to minimize the sufferings of others. What I am trying to do is convey the brokenness only a dashed hope can incite. The difference in my life is that I was hoping for something, and I found out that it couldn’t happen. It didn’t matter why. My heart was sick. My heart is sick.

That, compounded with the fact that I am surrounded by memories of loved ones who have since moved onto the next stage of life, has made the first few days of this semester harder than I would have anticipated. Even small things like coffee cup lids and tea bags have the ability to make me smile then frown at the recent parting from chosen family.

Life is full of deferred hopes. Life is full of goodbyes. Nothing lasts forever. Everything ends. All things, except this: our Father in Heaven.

I am graduating in May. The friends that I have parted from will be in heaven someday where parting comes no more. Christ will return, bringing joy and banishing sadness and pain from his children. And that is something I can hope for.

You think you know someone. Until you don't.

You think you know someone, and then they do something that make you realize, no, you do not. That's not always a bad thing.

There comes a point in every relationship where one party will do something to make the other stand there, mouth open, shock flooding their features. But that's not always a bad thing either.

Sometimes you do something, say something, or don't do or say something that is so unforgivable that you fully expect that friend to tell you to leave. And then they forgive you and you realize that you don't know them at all.

Everyone has a sin they find unforgivable, even if they themselves commit that sin. They hold it over themselves and close up, shutting out people in an effort to self-punish. Mine is betrayal. Betrayal of trust, of family. There are a lot of things that fit into those categories, and I have committed each of them more times than I can count against people I'm supposed to love. I expect them to be done with me, but then they forgive me, and I remember: people are surprising.

It's weird, that moment when you realize that the person sitting across the table loves you. Really, truly, set-themselves-on-fire, shout-from-the-rooftops loves you. There's embarrassment and butterflies and soul-crushing shame that you are so bad and wrong that you can't possibly deserve this love. There's awe and gratitude that someone can see past the crap and walls of protection and layers of inappropriate humor and still, somehow, want a part of that.

I've never been in love. I'm sure it's as wonderful and terrible as everyone claims it to be. But I am quite content with and all together surprised by the love I do have: that strong, unbreakable bond of chosen family. It's different from being loved by a parent or a sibling. It's a love that is wholly unnecessary and fragile, yet somehow vital and strong.

There's an old quote that says "blood is thicker than water." Everyone takes it to mean that the people you are born to are the ones who deserve your loyalty. But that's not it at all. The full quote is "the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb." Meaning that the relationships you choose, the people you decide on, are more lasting than a simple familial connection. It's different than familial love, because it doesn't have to exist.

That's not to say that family isn't important. But in order for family to mean anything at all, you have to choose it. So when that person you've chosen to be a part of you family hands you a perfectly prepared cup of coffee, or forwards you the answers to the study guide unprompted, or lies for your benefit, and you realize that they love you, too, it's life-changing. Crazy, unexpected, and just plain weird, that there is a real, live human being that loves you, flaws and all.

And, sure, they're going to do something stupid. Something you hate. But it's important to remember that love is not the absence of conflict. And that you need to forgive them, because they have forgiven you.