The Leaving and the Left

Gina had orange hair, and it was scratchy, like a doll that I once singed when I left it by the fireplace too long. Her thick glasses perched perfectly on a freckled face, and she always smelled faintly of clothes that had been left in the dryer too long. She wasn’t one of the popular girls with perfectly coifed bangs and Guess jeans, but I liked her because she liked to read and write and ride bikes. I liked her because she let me boss her around and because she didn’t make fun of me for bringing cloth napkins in my lunchbox. I liked her because she laughed really hard at my jokes, and she clapped after I spelled neither ‘kneether’ in the all school spelling bee, making others think just for a second that I had spelled it correctly.

Gina and I tried out for a talent show once in fifth grade. We wore matching outfits, skirts with suspenders and we twirled batons to a Sharon, Lois, and Bram song. While the other kids perfected their New Kids on the Block lip-syncing routine, we boasted that we had real talent, and spent several days honing that talent in her basement.

I’m not entirely sure which one of us came up with the miserable idea, as neither of us had an ounce of athletic ability, and the size of our teeth alone was enough to position us against gravity in our twirling endeavors. But we had a good run at it, and I don’t remember either of us being overly devastated when our name wasn’t on the call back list. 

She told me at recess one day toward the end of the school year that she was moving to Kentucky, and I spent the rest of the afternoon ignoring her. The next day I told her that I was mad because she should have told me sooner, but that if she would apologize I would be her friend again and write her letters once a week.

She did, and I didn’t, and that’s how that went.

It’s always seems easier to be the one leaving instead of the one that’s left.

Leaving seems to be a romantic adventure, a journey to the unknown, a quest for something noble. 

Being left is hauling your bag to the bus stop as you see the tail lights drive away, leaving you alone and exhausted and wishing you wouldn’t have taken the extra two minutes to make your bed.

I’ve been both the leaver and the left.

Shortly after Gina Klass moved to Kentucky, my dad got offered a position in Indianapolis, and we were going to be moving in the middle of my seventh grade year.I still hadn’t grown into my teeth, but I had made other really good friends with wild imaginations and enough humility to let me boss them around. I was doing well in school, just on the brink of finally being old enough for my church youth group, and had an eighth grader that wanted to take me to a dance.

At twelve, I was convinced the move was going to ruin my life. I moped around for weeks, certain that if I cried enough real tears my parents would change their minds. I got a diary with strawberries on it and wrote poems about the injustice of life and the dread of a bleak and friendless future. 

Two weeks before I left, my little girlfriends threw me a going away party. In preparation of our big good bye, I bought each girl a candle and bought a soundtrack to a 1992 Michael W. Smith hit. On the night of our slumber party (how we transitioned from makeovers and dance parties I’m still not sure), I had each of the girls sit in a circle. I went around and told each of them what I would miss most about them, and then I sang the lyrics to “Pray for Me” that I had practiced relentlessly at home...

Painted on our tapestry

We see the way it has to be

Weaving through the laughter and the tears.

But love will be the tie that binds us

To the time we leave behind us

Memories will be our souvenirs.... 

I can laugh about it now, how cheesy and juvenile, but in all of our pre-teen angst, this move was a really big deal. 

Looking back, it was preparation for harder heartache. Life tends to ease us into grief, one difficult good-bye at a time. 

Consider the parents whose child is going away to college, or the congregation whose pastor has just resigned. Consider the wife that commits to keeping the home while her husband goes off to defend it, the father who is walking his daughter down the aisle, the mother reaching her hand in the casket to touch her first-born’s one last time before its closed.

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I’ve often wondered why we call the day of Christ’s crucifixion Good Friday. There was nothing good about the day. Can you imagine how the disciples, those closest to the Great Teacher felt as they watched their friend, the Mentor for whom they had abandoned their lives being beat to unrecognizable remains? How Mary must have felt to see her son, the man she had carried in her womb, hanging among criminals?

They didn’t know then what we know. This is not how they imagined it going down. They didn’t go into Friday knowing that nearly 2000 years later, we would still be celebrating on Sunday.

Jesus had tried to be considerate, telling the disciples at recess that He was moving to Kentucky. 

I’m sure He took the Last Supper into as much consideration as I did our slumber party, letting each one of them know just how important they had been to His ministry.

But even so the truth remained, He had to go.

Knowing what was ahead, Jesus, Himself, asked his Heavenly Father if the cup could pass without Him drinking. 

I imagine a modern-day translation would say something like, “Please, God, isn’t there any way that I could just stay here and still accomplish Your will? I promise to be good.”

No matter how certain we are that something is right, it rarely makes it easy. While being left feels hopeless, leaving is not without its challenges.  Change, no matter how essential, requires a significant amount of guts. We see it all over the Scripture, obedience over sacrifice, stretching out of comfortable places in order to grow.

The sun set that night on a hill where Jesus hung, a bookmark for all of humanity to remember the deafening sound of silence.

But God never ends a story that way.

What we know now is that three days later, Jesus conquered the grave, rose from the dead, setting Him apart from every other religious figure to date. His willingness to obey

fulfilled the will of God the Father, bringing HOPE to all mankind.

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We planted a garden by the moonlight last night. Caleb transformed an old tub into a garden container, drilling holes in the bottom for proper drainage and positioning it on the sunniest spot of our backyard. We filled it up with dirt, and placed our last squash a little after midnight.

After we watered our new plants and then cleaned up the mess, we stood in front of the tub and asked God to bless our meager efforts. 

Our eyes see a big ol’ tub of dirt with a few leaves poking out. Faith sees a sustainable garden, complete with juicy tomatoes and tasty herbs. 

Our eyes see Christ ridiculed, beaten, and plastered on a cross to die a criminal’s death. Faith sees the Son of God redeeming what was lost and making it possible for mankind to be reconciled with their Creator.

Resurrection has to follow death. The sun can’t rise unless there is night. Nothing is harvested without first being sown. 

The message of Easter is not HE lives. It’s that WE live. 

Because of this amazing, epic love story, we have been given everything we need to LIVE, really live, not just get by, not just survive, but LIVE.

I’m reminded of an old church hymn we sang so many times growing up. Like so many songs, the words lose their meaning through repetition, but many of you might be able to hum along...

Because He lives,

I can face tomorrow

Because He lives,

All fear is gone

Because I know 

He holds the future

Life is worth the living

Just because 

He lives.

If we really approached life that way, we might make our decisions a little bit differently. Instead of clinging so tightly to what we know, we might be a little more likely to branch out into what we hope.

What dreams are you reaching for today? What’s holding you back from fulfilling that quiet yearning inside? Have you risked anything lately?

Easter is an invitation to the feast. A summoning to new places, higher mountains, greater authority, and fuller hope. 

But you can’t go to the party unless you leave your house. 

It’s Easter...time to party.