Rich and Red: Loving Fully Even When Goodbyes are Imminent
Best friends are hard to come by. When we find them – people who really know us and make us feel known, people who make us belly laugh to the point of keeling over, people who give from the depths of themselves knowing God never runs out – we need to hold on tight. That’s why I was multitasking, weeping and wiping snot while I stood in the middle of her house that was nearly empty.
It happened like magic, like a miracle. At some point in the last three-ish years, between coffee dates and pop-ins, wild family dinners and lockdown sleepovers, weekend trips and sitting in the kitchen talking about the week, they became like family. And now, without nearly enough notice, they were leaving. That’s the life we live, a life where nothing is permanent, everything is foreign, and the people who surround you are far too easy to try and hold on to. But God takes what he desires, and he desired them, in a different place than here. In this life we live, we get many reminders that the only thing we can really ever hang on to is Jesus.
I reluctantly packed away fall flavored coffee. I saw it and she said I could have it. She kept doing that, giving away the things that she couldn’t carry around the world with her. But I’d much rather have her than nutmeg-flavored coffee. I’d rather they stay and keep their couch they just bought – the one that they’d spend such a long time deciding to keep. I’d rather come over for coffee on Sunday mornings than brew it in my own home that is quickly overflowing with the belongings of the people who know me best. This is the fourth goodbye we’ve been forced to say in only two weeks.
Our normal commute around town, passing by places where people we love used to live is like a stinging slap in the face. Two weeks ago life was normal and without knowing it I took everything and everyone around me for granted. I walked contentedly through my days singing and dancing as if it was going to be this way forever. But it all changed before the song was finished. The world turned upside down while I was sleeping.
Perhaps I should have known. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let my heart get so attached. Perhaps I should have kept my heart a safe distance from the things and the people around me that are so subject to fleeting, so prone to passing through. Perhaps I should have kept one hand on a go-bag and one foot out the door. Maybe then this wouldn’t hurt so bad.
Deceiving thoughts from the deceiver himself. It’s frightening how eager my heart is to flee right along with them, into the dark forests of frustration and bitterness that wear the very alluring mask of righteousness. Because “yes!” the world shouts, “you deserve to be sad. You, dear one, deserve to be safe. You, sweet timid soul deserve to hide away within yourself where it is quiet, safe, sweet and warm.”
He who prowls would have me cornered there, within myself and without anyone. It’s there he devours us, swallows us whole in doubt and grief and bitterness.
It just isn’t fair is a sentiment he capitalizes on often and with pride.
We’re right, you know. It isn’t fair. None of this is.
Loving well and loving deeply comes at a cost that often goes unrequited.
“Above all, love each other deeply,” wrote Peter in Biblical days, when loneliness was rife, persecution palpable and sin much too tempting. I read that a long time ago, penned it in my best calligraphy onto a canvas and propped it up on a shelf in my home. Loving deeply felt like such an easy thing to do, such a romantic notion, such an awesome depiction of Jesus who loved me to the deepest depths of himself, who loved me to the point of death.
Jesus loved when it wasn’t fair.
I don’t want to try to wrap these feelings up with a pretty “Jesus died for me” bow. Because this still stings. I’m still not okay and I’m not sure when I will be next.
But when I think about the body and the blood, when I sit surrounded by people who have given their lives and hearts to Jesus and remember the cross in communion, I remember that he loved us when it must have seemed impossible to do so. He gave of himself until the only thing he had left was his body. He did not keep his blood to himself. But instead, poured it out, rich and red for the sake of our souls.
A few days after the latest blow, we got breakfast with some friends who had lived overseas for most of their lives. Their kids are grown, their hair is grayed with experience, joys, loss, cultural struggle, biblical wisdom. We asked them if this gets easier, this saying goodbye.
“Heavens no,” they sighed … almost in unison.
I believe they could have filled up many hours there in that roadside cafe with the stories of building and breaking that they have endured. But in our short visit, they regaled over the way they found family in the most unexpected places. They wiped the corners of their eyes, tears they’ve cried countless times over the goodbyes they’ve been forced to endure.
“But we have family all around the world now. And we always have heaven,” shared the husband, placing a tender and affirming hand on his bride’s shoulder.
You could see it all over their faces, every name they named, every memory they recalled, they gave their all. Every goodbye felt like a limb being removed, felt like the ground being ripped out from under them, felt like their world was falling apart. But they felt it all. And each time they dug deep down to find the love that still welled up inside them. They gave and they gave and they gave.
They could have kept their hearts tucked away, guarded from the world and from the hurt and torment of being ripped apart and scattered. But they are being scattered and sown. The places they’ve left themselves will see beautiful blooms one day.
They know that their hearts aren’t theirs to keep safe. They have learned that a secure heart is one that loves little, and is loved little.
The thing I love about Jesus is he always has more to give. He is never undone. He has never reached his limits. When his body was brimming with blood because of stress. When scoffers shouted every insult known to man. When his best friend denied him. When his best friend betrayed him. He stayed still and resilient in his love for man, in his plan to rescue and redeem them. He loved until it hurt and then some.
And he is still giving. He loves me when I doubt him. Not less than when I don’t. But I might even venture to say he loves me more when I doubt him. His love is one that reaches into the trenches, that gets way down low. When I’m face down on the floor he’s there at eye level with me, continuing to pour himself out on my behalf, continuing to love from the depths of himself.
This is not an attempt to diminish feelings, to put a bandaid on a gaping wound. This is me, wounded, bleeding, standing on top of a building shouting that your heart isn’t yours to keep safe but your heart is Jesus’s to give away.
We are not made whole or kept secure by hiding within ourselves. We were made to be poured out. Because the matter of you is not blood and bones, but dust and breath.
I want to love like Jesus did. I don’t want to reserve any of myself from anyone. I want to love even when it’s hard, even when it’s not returned, even when they have to leave.
I want to pour my love out, rich and red, from the very depths of myself knowing that he who loved me first has every intention of filling me right back up again. And it might hurt. There might be days where I feel empty, lonely, tired, worn. But maybe those are signs of a life well lived and a love deeply sown. Maybe it is from those places that I will learn to lean fervently upon my Savior. Then maybe the love that is poured out from me will be his very own.