He Will Go With Me All The Way

I have felt it creeping up on me. Have felt that deepening sense of, “this isn’t a forever thing.” I have known this was part of the package from the beginning-it’s not like I wasn’t warned. I tried to ready myself for this aspect of the ministry, yet as time gathered moment by moment, the sorrow set in just the same.

It’s Thursday night and I walk past the study door. Meditation and grief etch my husband’s face. Although we have talked much these last days, I wonder what his thoughts hold as I come near to him. He’s typing his letters of acceptance and goodbye. It’s clear the pain this is causing him. I glance at the words he writes one by one and my own grief twists inside. I shelf it because crying now won’t ease the suffering.

The kids have been counting down the days until Dad tells them if we will stay or go. “It’s Saturday!,” they remind him over and over again. We have been through this routine before, but I know the answer will be different this time. I have tried to throw them hints here and there to prepare their hearts the way I have attempted to prepare my own. “I just know we are going to move,” our oldest says. She’s bracing herself. I understand. We sit around the table that has been the center of countless discussions since we first began our labors here. We started our journey with one child and now five stare back at us. He breaks it to them gently, yet bluntly too. “So Dad has decided God’s will is for us to move.” I catch the grimace, the uncertainty flash through their eyes. “But we will live next to some of our cousins!,” one of them shouts. It’s a joy they find in the sudden ache. Then just as quickly a whimper comes, “But Mom, I won’t go to kindergarten with Morgan. She is the only other girl. And she is my friend.” I reach out and gather my daughter gently and stroke her strawberry blonde hair. I can’t lie to her. Can’t cover the pain with platitudes of “it will be ok.” So I tell her the truth-“This is hard, isn’t it? I’m so sorry you have to go through this. But we will go through it together.” We acknowledge the goodness of our God as we bow our heads to pray. I sneak a look at my children’s sealed tight eyes and trembling lips. Stifled sadness is enveloping the smallness of two of my girls. My boy’s emotions are more hidden and reserved. When we finish talking to our Father, we decide to go out for ice cream to ease some of the unpredictability. Culver’s is a give in-it’s a Wisconsin speciality. The kids are chattering in the van-sharing nervous excitement and sweet memories. “I will miss this drive to Beaverdam,” I think. These county roads hold a lot of my ponderings.

Sunday morning wakens us. A day of worship to rejuvenate our souls. We wonder how this all will go, as what lies ahead is becoming so very real. “I don’t like that it’s Sunday today,” my 5-year-old states. “Why not?,” I ask, even though I already know the answer. “Because today Dad takes the call.” I know baby girl. I know.

We tune into the livestream of the church we will soon be moving to. We can see the minister’s lips moving on my phone screen. We know what’s happening. The moment is here-he is informing them. They cut the audio just like we asked. We want the people here to find out we are leaving from us personally.

We stroll the short walk to church. I’ll miss waving hello to fellow members as they make their way to praise God too. I try and take it all in. We aren’t in a rush today. The fields rest calm in the distance. We love the serenity of those green pastures. The white steeple on Hammond St. reaches high into the sky. I love this church. Our children run ahead until they reach the corner where they wait to cross the street with Mom and Dad. My husband holds the wee one just like every other week. She loves her daddy and it makes my heart glad. Cars sprinkle into the parking lot. My eyes glance across the road where I see our school. Erik is going to miss walking the kids to and from school. My husband’s name is plastered on the church sign. It’s a stark reminder this place is our abode. How have 9 years come and gone? The sun is shining-it’s warmth spreads life through me. God has sent the sunshine as a reminder He is here indeed. I whisper in my preacher’s ear as we walk through the doors, just like I always do. The words fall from my lips meaningfully as I tell him, “I will pray for you.” As I take our daughter from his arms and make my way with our children to our regular pew, I realize I forgot to tell him-so my heart whispers, “I love you…”

My 5-year-old whispers loudly, “When is it time for prayer?” We had told her that’s when the announcement would come-right before congregational prayer. The waiting is hard enough for me. I can only imagine what it’s doing to her toddler mind. Our baby starts waving vigorously. “Hi. Hi. Hi,” she repeats. I know she sees her Dad. As he makes his way down the isle, she points to him like always, a grin breaking through her pipe. “Da.” He’s struggling immensely. It’s written in his eyes. He grabs a Kleenex as he stands behind the pulpit and wipes away the tears. He told them…told these men who have walked through the fire and valleys with him. Told these brothers who have stretched forth sacrifice to the flock and encouragement to him. Told these men he respects and holds dear. The elders look somber, like they are holding back their own tears. My husband is shaken, and I can’t even be near.

The beginning of our worship is a blur until finally he opens up the letter he has written for the sheep. His tears are flowing as he tells them how much grief leaving will cause him. Tells them how much we love them and how they are our family. Yet, God’s will is clear, and we must trust the path set before us as a congregation and family. Grown men are crying. A little boy looks at his Dad with concern. Emotions are everywhere. I wonder what each person feels. I didn’t realize this would happen. My babies let tears fall too. My 4-year-old nuzzles next to me, asking if I’m ok. “Yes,” I mutter, in my hopes to hush her. But my heart says, “not really.”

He apologizes if the emotions tugging at him are distracting. I want to hug him. Want to tell him the emotions show he has loved these people. That his tears only make me respect and love him all the more. His prayer is riddled with sorrow, his voice cracks as he prays for the youth. Why Lord, is this so difficult? Help me get through this.

We sing. And the words strike a chord in me. “A pilgrim in the earth am I, Thy will to me reveal…” Pilgrims. Yes, Lord. We are pilgrims… The sermon is a needed distraction from the turbulence inside. When the service is over, it’s awkward only momentarily before my church family is reaching out to me. They are weeping as they share their love for us. They are gifting me the hurt of how hard this will be. My forehead is pressed into the foreheads of my dear sisters in Zion who have walked beside me through these years. One woman whispers how much she loves me-I understand because I love her too-she’s seen me through so much. Another says, “I don’t think I can do this.” All I can utter is that I’m sorry. She tells me it’s ok-it’s all the Lord’s will. But I can tell that doesn’t make it easy. I can’t remember the last time I’ve wailed like this. I embrace those whose broken paths have intimately intertwined with mine. I wish it didn’t feel like we were abandoning them. All we can do is cry because there’s really nothing we can say. We just feel the pain. I see my husband having conversations of his own. People saying they will miss his catechism teaching to their children, and others simply telling him, “We will miss you.” We walk home drained and it washes over me- this is what it is to love and be loved. Thank you God for giving the love of Your people to me. Thank You for Your love that has no beginning and no end…that always wraps around me.

I’m exhausted. I think I could sleep the day away. But we have church again soon. My son comes next to me as I scrub black smudges off my face. As I reapply mascara he says, “I won’t have my birthday party with my friends.” It’s hitting him. He smiles with two thumbs in the air and starts making a strange noise. “Jayden, what are you doing?” “I’m trying not to cry.” Oh my son, loose your tears. “I sort of tried to not cry this morning too.” I ask him, “Did you want to though?” The nod of his head as he wipes his tears tells me he’s understanding it’s ok to cry. We hug and then we head out the door for worship service number two where more sisters cry with me.

The truth is I couldn’t prepare myself. This place holds too many memories. We have planted seeds that have taken root, and we have watched them grow. I know that as we make plans to leave, the sorrow will creep in at unexpected times and to varying degrees. Not because I am unhappy, but because we have loved these people deep. And I know that is ok. Because opening yourself up to love means opening yourself up to ache. The harder you love, the harder you seem to break. How Jesus must have broke for His sheep on that bloodied stake. Where we are in a period of transition that is a bit intimidating and unknown, I am thankful for all this overwhelming love that is making me break.

Dear saints in Randolph, thank you for loving our family. Loving you was easy. Leaving will be hard. We love you and will miss the blessings you so freely and abundantly bestow. As we look ahead to parting ways, remember goodbyes only give way to tomorrow’s sweeter hellos. We will meet again. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you. I pray His face shines upon you. That He gives you peace. Surely He will bless and keep you…

To our soon to be church at Grace-we are excited to get to know you, and pray that God plants more tender seeds that grow. That He gives us great love for one another- the kind that loves one another vastly-that’s willing to enter into the joy and ache. I am realizing the emotions of a move are raw and friendships aren’t replaced overnight. But God is faithful. With the passing of the winter and the coming of spring, the reminder always comes that each season is beautiful and each one is good. Like my husband said well, “I don’t really know you at all. And you don’t really know me at all: but I do know we have the same Savior, the same Lord, the same God, the same faith, the same hope, and the same comfort.” You are a precious church, and we look forward to getting to know you and serve the Lord with you.

The ache will come and go. Like many things-it will ebb and flow. But my God remains the same and this next chapter in our pilgrim life will be beautiful too. For the safest place in the world is where He would have me to go. “Where He leads me, I will follow. I’ll go with Him, go with Him all the way…He will give me grace and glory…and go with me, go with me all the way.”