Empty // Chapter 5
I remember the way the innocence drained from her eyes. The dark cloud of Sorrow darkened her face. He had resigned from his job as the Pastor of our church and our visas had been rescinded in the process. “We have to leave Scotland. We can’t stay.” He spoke those words and she crumpled onto the couch. A sob tore through the silence and the ache in the room was palpable. Her little sister, always the optimist, said “It will be ok. America has good things too.” We sat there as a family of four, crying.
Four. A perfect even number. Two units of two. Funny how odd that number sounds now.
I see his suitcase by the door. A green duffle bag with initials on the side. His jacket lay across his leather bag. He was going on ahead of us. A friend would take him in for a while. It was January. The bleakest month. Christmas was over. The tree was still up. The house felt eerily cozy and magical, but the reality was anything but.
The door closed and he descended the steps. I had no tears. It was as if my body was no longer producing them. My friend hugged me and I stood there limp and lifeless. He was gone.
And all the broken pieces were now mine
to steward,
to sort,
to carry.
We had twelve days.
Twelve days to close a chapter.
A chapter I loved, cherished and had poured my life out for. Twelve days to sell our things. Twelve days to say goodbye. Twelve days to pack suitcases. Twelve days to visit favorite spots for one last time.
Twelve days to lay my beautiful life in the grave of broken dreams and walk away.
I remember wrapping Christmas ornaments in bubble wrap with tender care. Each one had been a precious gift from my Mom who had died six years earlier. Family treasures. They felt more fragile than normal and I was afraid to even touch them. My fragility felt like a curse. Like everything I touched might shatter and turn to dust in my hands. I cried as I packed them.
I remember a stack of Nancy Drew books that had been a gift from a friend. My girls were too little to read them. They were scary and too mature. But life had gotten scary and my girls had to grow up overnight. So maybe we should have packed them after all instead of setting them in the donate pile.
I remember my friend handing me cash for my vacuum cleaner. I had saved for a whole year to buy it and now it belonged to someone else.
I remember taking phone calls (so many phone calls) up in the attic where the girls wouldn’t hear me cry. I remember details coming to light. I remember the slow dribble of information that tore at my heart over and over. I remember being brought so low after one specific phone call that the moans and sobs that came out of me startled me because they were a sound I had never heard from my own body. It sounded foreign. But it was mine. It was my grief and the weight was crushing. The very worst had been confirmed. The very, very worst.
I remember my sister and best friends flying over from America to help me sort and pack. I remember hugging them for the first time. I remember their compassion and their nearness. I remember the way they hugged and loved my babies. I remember the way they filled gaps that felt like chasms.
I remember my computer jamming as I tried to upload files and pictures. The wheel of death spinning on the screen until I gave up and closed it down. What’s the point of saving memories anyways. Was any of it even real?
I remember throwing away all my lingerie and pajamas. They felt tainted and I wanted them out of the house. Like NOW. I remember shopping for new underwear and wondering what kind of underwear I actually liked. I didn’t know. I had gotten lost along the way.
I remember taking pictures of the girls sitting at their childhood play table. It was green, with marker and juice stains. Their eyes looked so sad. So weary. They had aged overnight. It’s like all of a sudden they were too big to be sitting at such a small and childish table.
I remember my oldest wanting to celebrate St Lucia day like Kirsten the American Girl character. She wore an old flower girl dress and made a wreath for her hair. She sang a Christmas carol and we ate cookies. The Christmas lights were still up and they were all twinkly and glittery. It was a beautiful, peaceful, magical moment and I *almost* forgot my reality.
I remember friends coming in and out. Each one leaving with tears, a hug and something from my kitchen. A pot, a set of tupperware,a coffee maker. Piece by piece my life walked out my door.
We had one last night in the house. I don’t remember a thing about it. Nothing was left so I probably felt the ache of empty. But I don’t remember. The pain drowned it I guess. It’s another memory lost. We probably ate pizza on paper plates. That just sounds like what you do the night before a move. But that’s just a guess.
Friends came to pick us up for the airport before the sun came up. I took a picture of my girls on the doorstep of our beautiful house. They were half asleep. Half shell-shocked. Why did I feel the need to document that moment? I had dressed them in matching shirts that said DREAM BIG. Dream big, darling daughters. Dream big new dreams, because this one is dead. When I see the picture now it makes me physically ache. It was a moment wrapped in devastation. So why snap the picture? Why try to capture what had already been lost? It’s just what moms do, I guess? We are the Memory Keepers. We see through cracks into beautiful moments. Sacred spaces of time and nostalgia. We capture sweet glimpses of magic. We capture them so we can hold onto them forever.
But all those memories lay shattered in the home I just locked up for the last time. What’s the point of it? Any of it?
We squeezed in the car, suitcases on our laps. My neighbors slept peacefully while my world spun out of orbit. I leaned my head back on the headrest and tears flowed down my face as we drove the streets of our beloved city one last time. It was so quiet. So somber. It felt like being in a funeral procession.
Do you remember the story of Naomi in the book of Ruth? She labeled herself Bitter. She said “Don’t call me Naomi any more…
Call me Mara,” she answered, “for the Almighty has made me very bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty. Why do you call me Naomi, since the Lord has opposed me, and the Almighty has afflicted me?” (Ruth 1:20-21)
I was Mara.
I went away full.
But now,
I was leaving my home
completely
and utterly
empty.
The Lord had opposed me.
The Almighty had afflicted me.
I was bitter.
My new name was
BITTER.
I looked up at the screen as we walked into the airport and took note of the date.
January 24.
The day I lost my home.
And not just my home home.
I lost HOME. In every sense of the word I lost…
HOME.
My husband. My church family. My house. My neighbors. My mission field. My friends. My stuff. My ministry. My garden. My calling. My income. My dreams. My security. And now my beloved Scotland, too. All of it, gone. It was all just a puff of smoke.
“This isn’t fair, Rachel. You don’t deserve any of this.” My friend cried as they spoke. I cried as I listened.
And then we picked up our bags and walked through the gate.
We had arrived so full.
And we were leaving
so fully
and completely
empty.
TO BE CONTINUED…
**Maybe you are also in a place where you feel completely hopeless? While the writing of my story is going chapter by chapter, I would like to fast forward you today to the most glorious ending. Hopelessness doesn’t have the final say when Jesus steps in to the story…
