Saying Good-bye

We have a tradition in our family that when you turn 13 you get to choose an exciting destination and go there with mom.   I love to travel, having inherited the traveling bug from my dad.

As a kid, I always wanted to go along on dad's annual fishing trip to Canada.  Every year he'd say, "You're not quite old enough.  Maybe next year."  I heard this when I was eight, and again every year until I turned eighteen.  I suppose he realized then that I was about to leave for college (and if I recall my attitude, he might have been glad about that), and surprised me by saying that THIS year we were going to Canada. 

We didn't go all the way to Reed Lake in Manitoba, but compromised by just driving to the Boundary Waters in MinneSOHta.  It seemed like a great idea.  The ride up I think we had lots to talk about.  We stayed a week, saw hardly anyone.  Hardly anyone. It wasn't long until I found myself thinking how very nice the trip could be if I was, instead, with a nice boy, all alone.  For a week.  Pretty soon the heat, headwinds, and the biting flies took their toll, and I got--shall we say--crabby.  I don't remember a lot of conversation on the long drive home.  I do remember that we eventually agreed that we had waited a few years too many to travel together.  I always regretted that.

When my own children came along, then, I hoped to travel with them while they still thought it was a good idea.  Before the adolescentsies got in full swing, when it's still OK to hug them goodnight, stuff like that.  The three oldest are boys, and we have taken some terrific trips together full of nice memories; I've enjoyed them all:   Ireland, Disneyworld, Greece.  Now my first daughter is 13 and it's her turn.  She, too, loves to travel, and so tomorrow we head off to Paris.  Paris!! 

The trips have a similar rhythm.  We plan, try to learn things about where we're going, pack for the week in a backpack (it's a personal challenge).  Then the reality hits of leaving other sweet ones home, missing out on the stories and reports from kindergarten about who is still friends with whom (and who is not!), hearing about the lunch menu and how much fun they had in art class.  For several days I won't hear that with someone sitting on my lap.

The day before the trip, then,  I'm pretty teary-eyed as I print off the itinerary, see beautiful photos of the places we'll see, and tick off each item on the packing list.  I know we'll communicate with everyone at home, thanks to the internet.  And the first few days I will love being able to have grown-up conversations without interruptions, doing things the little kids would be perfectly bored with.  Mary and I are about to see beautiful cathedrals in Paris, go to the Eiffel Tower and eat ourselves silly with real Parisian croissants.  We're even planning to go to daily mass so she can truthfully report that she enjoyed French wine every day.  But I know that in about five days I'll start noticing little children whose tired parents have about had it, thinking how precious they are and wishing a high-pitched voice was giving me a breathless narrative about getting the swing closest to the fence at recess. 

This has been a week full of tender good-byes.  Good-byes,  final or only temporary, are full of change and separation and not being able to touch.  I feel such a thin veneer separating this life from a real, active, and living world of saints and angels who can almost be seen out of the corner of my eye on occasion; being part of that is what I hope for my beloveds when the time comes.  Which will be a very good thing, for them.  BUT... not being able to hug my parents or my children,  not being able to feel Roy by me in the night, or my sweet little girls snuggled close--that's what keeps me grounded and tearful when I know a good-bye is coming.  Is here.