Saying Goodbye

“Through the back window of a ’59 wagon, I watch my best friend Janie slipping further away. I kept on waving ‘til I couldn’t see her, and trough my tears I asked again why we couldn’t stay.

Momma whispered softly, ‘Time will ease your pain. Life’s about changing, nothing ever stays the same.’ And she said, ‘How can I help you to say goodbye. It’s okay to hurt and its okay to cry. Come let me hold you, and I will try. How can I help you to say goodbye.’”

It’s been a long time since I’ve sat down and listened to this song. A long time. I was first introduced to it when we were talking about grief in 11^th grade summer health class. But this past week, the lyrics have been coming to my mind with the chorus seemingly being on an endless repeat cycle.

A friend asked me earlier this week how I’m handling the fact that my best friend was getting married on Saturday. That question helped me realize that I was processing it all by ignoring. Not healthy.

“Momma whispered softly, ‘Time will ease your pain. Life’s about changing, nothing ever stays the same.’ And she said, ‘How can I help you to say goodbye. It’s okay to hurt and its okay to cry. Come let me hold you, and I will try. How can I help you to say goodbye.’”

We’re entering a time of celebration but it also marks a time of change, not only for him and his new wife, but in our friendship. This is my best friend of six years. We’ve been though a lot together – emotionally and spiritually. We used to plan our schedules in such a way that we would have as many classes as possible together. We’d sneak up to the chapel balcony two times a week to just talk about what we were struggling with theologically and talk about insights we had from individual devotions that week. We were library buddies, making sure to have carrels next to each other so someone was always available when we had a freak out.

We’ve also traveled the world together. He’s been to my house too many times to count because he lived so far away from Houghton. We led worship together at my church several times. He had his own “bedroom” in my house. I’ve been out to visit him in KS. He was my other set of eyes and ears when I looked at grad schools, visiting three of the six divinity schools I looked at with me. We’ve been to Russia and Australia together. We’ve ate more meals together then either of us would probably like to count. He weathered my poor cooking when I was learning how to cook. We’ve watched more movies then we can remember. We’ve read books together, writing skewed notes in the margins so we could remember what to tell the other person.

We’re tight. We can complete each others sentences. Speak the truth to each other and be the only person who understands when the rest of our lives seem to be falling apart.

Best friends. And even as I write all of that it can’t begin to capture the memories we have with each other. The special moments we’ve shared. Moments that are marred if we try to take our memories and put them into the constraints of words.

“Momma whispered softly, ‘Time will ease your pain. Life’s about changing, nothing ever stays the same.’ And she said, ‘How can I help you to say goodbye. It’s okay to hurt and its okay to cry. Come let me hold you, and I will try. How can I help you to say goodbye.’”

And as happy as I am for him and his fantastic wife, I came to the realization while I was flying to their celebration that I felt robbed. I haven’t been able to say goodbye. Our culture does a really good job of helping same-sex friendships transition through marriage – that’s the true point of a bachelor or baccalaureate party. To acknowledge that a change is going to come, and to grieve that in the midst of celebration.

But the funny thing is that same-sex friendships aren’t going to change nearly as much as opposite-sex friendships. And where is the place for the ritaulization of our grief? Where are we allowed to mourn what we had that can’t be anymore and figure out what our friendship is going to look like with this addition?

I didn’t get to rtiaulize so it seems that all I really have is confusion and hurt, which seems so wrong in the midst of being so happy for him.

Where is the ritualization to name my grief so we can move on to the wonderful celebration? It seems like we’ve blasphemed against the God who created us to be able to feel all of our emotions by just wanting to be in the midst of the celebration. By suppressing anything that isn’t joyful. We are told that tears are shameful or out place, so we rush through grief instead of sitting Shiva. No wonder we have two personalities inside of each of us (at least) – we’ve been told to avoid who we really are and what we really feel.

Does that mean I’m not elated fir him? Of course not. It just means that I know I’ve missed a huge step in this transition because I’ve given in to what people tell me that it is proper to feel instead of sitting in the reality of what I do feel. I failed to reflect. Failed to remember. Failed to name what hurts and scares me. In one week leading up to one day of one celebration, I unraveled everything that it took me 10 weeks to build in CPE.

“Momma whispered softly, ‘Time will ease your pain. Life’s about changing, nothing ever stays the same.’ And she said, ‘How can I help you to say goodbye. It’s okay to hurt and its okay to cry. Come let me hold you, and I will try. How can I help you to say goodbye.’”

So how can we help each other to say goodbye?