The sense of peace and calm that pervades our Squad is palpable.
After almost two-and-a-half months apart, being together again is as natural and intuitive as breathing. Throughout the hotel, small enclaves form and the racers embrace the simple joy of coexistence, sharing stories of phone calls home to those who couldn’t be here, berating the handful who have, by some miracle, never seen Star Wars, or simply being in the same shared space. Dancing (music optional) is a fact of life. Occasionally, someone breaks down:
“I can’t check into my room. If I check into my room, I don’t live at home anymore, and it’s that much closer to the trip.”
“My little brother doesn’t understand. He keeps begging me to come home.”
“I just can’t be an adult anymore right now.”
Still, in that emotion, there is the ceaseless undercurrent of devotion to each other. Those who find themselves breaking take comfort from those nearby, and the inclination to “be messy” is, for some at least, unhindered by any false sense of pride. Those that haven’t broken yet brace for the inevitable moment to come. Those who are vulnerable find themselves inundated with love. We are a family, regardless of paltry DNA, and family looks after its own. It is a singularly wonderful feeling, like comfort food for your whole being.
Still, there is another story, and it is playing out in a hotel barely 3/4 of a mile away, and in homes across the country. No one tells us these things directly -either out of solidarity or to protect their children- but for those who listen, our parents’ conversations are enlightening.
There are empty seats at tables in Pennsylvania where families had expected their college graduate to come home.
At diners in Atlanta, parents muse in seeming awe at their “homebody” offspring’s unabashed determination to travel the globe and live out of a backpack.
Parents in Missouri plaintively post to Facebook, “My kid is on Squad __. If you see them, give them a hug for me. I can’t be there.”
Those whose kids are on the same team collaborate to make sure that all have the ability to eat lunch together with the parents tomorrow, a final gift of love to before the weekend ends and the reality that we really are getting on that plane makes its final push through their defenses. Our families hurt. They ache inside in anticipation of our absence. In spite of that, their joy and courage.
They worship with us, despite the fact that they don’t know the words to the strange song they’ve never heard.
They hope for the best and plan for the worst.
They try to pray for us, and, overcome with emotion, pause long enough for the tears to stop, collect themselves, and start again.
They try to help their kids get organized, and don’t get angry when their kids publicly snap at them because they don’t get what their parents are going through. (I’m sorry, Mom. I know I make it hard to feel like you’re helping. You do.)
They try desperately to understand what it is about this Jesus character that compels their child to just up and leave because they haven’t met Him yet.
They choose to put us on the altar again and give us over to something beyond themselves when they would rather tie us to the couch. Or the car. Or the kitchen sink. Any stationary object will do, so long as the knots are as tight as the ones in their stomachs.
Our parents are desperately clinging to us in these final hours before we part ways, and so many of us are straining, in Shakespearean fashion, “like greyhounds in the slips” to go. Pray for them today. Encourage them today. Friends, in our absence, love them well for us. We chose this journey, and they walk it with us by necessity.
It’s not that we don’t care.
It’s not that we can’t be bothered.
It’s not that we wouldn’t love to stay.
It’s just that we were well raised, and we know what we need to do next.
