Some things we leave, some things we carry

Sometimes life seems to be a never-ending series of goodbyes – to childhood, high school, and university friends, to co-workers and bosses, to teammates and coaches, to neighbors, and to acquaintances. Every school, job, summer camp, and city brings with it new relationships and, inevitably, more somber partings. That´s the danger of following our passions, greatest dreams, and divinely-inspired desires – rarely do they lead us down comfortable, familiar roads.

But, as is so often quoted, “practice makes perfect,” and learning to say goodbye is no different. The physical act – the words, the hugs, the promise to stay in touch – becomes less painful each time. The unpleasant realization that I may never see this person again becomes less shocking. And the genuine gratitude I feel for sharing part of my life with this person – however earth-shatteringly momentous or simple and understated our relationship may have been – outlasts the sadness of saying goodbye to a person who has shaped me in still-unrecognizable ways. The simple action of mindful thankfulness helps me see the relationship as, at the very worst, a temporal spot of beauty in my life, and, at the very best, the beginning of a rewarding long-distance correspondence and the promise of future, laughter-filled reunions.

All these goodbyes throughout the years, these goodbyes that I have perfected, they don´t make my heart any smaller. Sure, we leave a bit of our heart with each person we love, just as we leave our footprints on the sacred ground we walk, our handprints on the people we hold, our sweat on the battlefield, and our tears on the shoulders of the ones who hold us. No matter how much we give away, however, we will never be weakened because the ones we love do not take a piece of our hearts without also giving us a piece of their own. 

e e  cummings wrote:

                                                                                   I carry your heart

                                                                                   (I carry it in my heart)

This patch-work heart that beats in my chest knows no borders nor race nor gender nor creed. It is broken each day by the injustices and pain present in the world but also strengthened each day by the promise and hope present in each of my students. In five months, my time as a Jesuit Volunteer will come to an end and I will leave Peru; the magnitude of the goodbyes I will soon have to say is daunting. But still, my heart, a sort-of masochistic drummer boy, keeps time as I march towards that moment.

It is a realistic, not fatalistic, reminder that the heartache of a goodbye is part of what I signed up for: as a volunteer and as a human being. Without the Crucifixion there is no Resurrection. Without dark there is no light. Without grief and pain and heartache, how do we know the true depth of our love?