It is a Good Hurt

I walked around most of the day yesterday with a lump in my throat, and a tightening in my chest. Up until this point in the process of moving my family, my life, to Africa I have not allowed myself to dwell on thoughts of loss. Yes, from time to time such thoughts have surfaced and caused me to catch my breath and get teary eyed, but up until yesterday I have squelched them quickly. I stamp out the embers immediately for fear they will ignite the fire of loss and I will be consumed.

I have a friend I, "do," life with here. I will not call her out by name, because she is just that shy. She is gifted, yet humble. Beautiful, yet unaware. Generous, but anonymous. Everyday for the past six and a half years our lives have become woven together. It has been an easy give and take, an effortless companionship. She is no more than 70 feet away from me at all times; a luxury in which I have become reliant. Lately, I have become overwhelmingly aware of the fact that this luxury will soon become a memory.

Our friendship came softly, and sweetly. It is the type of relationship that is born out of necessity, and availability. For years we have stood outside and watched our children play together. We have loved the others' children like our own, we have prayed for them, watched them grow, and delighted in their accomplishments. I cannot count the number of afternoons we have spent sharing our struggles, pains, worries, hopes, and opportunities. We have borrowed from each other eggs and sugar, but more importantly we have borrowed strength and support when the other was lacking.

Yesterday, my friend needed me and I was there for her, just as she has been there for me countless times. As I left her house yesterday the lump in my throat grew, and I had a physical pain in my chest. I pushed it down all day, all evening, and then the loss crept up on me as I was getting ready for bed. I sobbed. I shook. I hurt.

I was in this condition when Richard found me. He collected me in his arms. He inquired, and all I could get out was her name. He let me cry, then he gently whispered, "this is the good kind of hurt." I spun my head to find his eyes and insisted on an explanation. He went on to tell me that the pain I was feeling was the result of doing life correctly with people. Something would be horribly wrong if I did not feel this sense of loss, and he was right.

I am mourning the loss of people in my life. I have begun this process now, and I am allowing myself to feel the pain. I am not going on a missions trip. If God allows, the next few decades of my life will be lived out in Africa. I feel the loss for my children, for myself, and for those we are leaving behind. However, I am so thankful for the fact we have invested in the types of relationships that afford us the opportunity to mourn. It is a privilege.

Today, I choose to rejoice in the fact that I was given friendships when I needed them. I choose to have faith that the Lord will provide me with friendships in such timely ways in my future. Today, I lay my friendships on the alter and say, "thank you." It hurts, but I am so thankful it is the kind of hurt that one day our Creator will say was, "GOOD."