Oh, no.
We arrive at the Goodwins’ house late on a rainy night. Travel day was long.
I’m tired.
Give me some food. Give me a floor. I’m done for today.
Our ministry this month, I knew, was living with and caring for a family with 9 kids, an American couple with their 4 biological and 5 adopted Honduran children. We’d be helping them move from the town of Gracias, Lempira, to the island of Roatan.
“Sure, I love kids. I love islands. I’ll love it, I’m sure.”
And then, I find myself tired in the Goodwins’ dining room, ready to eat my burrito, when a 5 year-old in a cozy polka-dotted robe walks up to me. She has thick glasses and hair half the length of her body. Her voice is squeaky and she asks me what my name is. Hers is Genesis, but she’d like for me to call her SuperGirl. Okay. She kisses my cheek. She mixes her Spanish and English up sometimes.
Oh, no
3 babies curiously squirming in their high chairs. We call Esperanza ‘Espy,’ and I swear her eyes are bigger than mine. Christopher cries a lot, but Gabe just smiles, looks at me, and tries to drink my coffee. I rock him to sleep to Jingle Bells, and he thinks it’s the funniest to try to eat my hair.
I look over to the living room. 6-year old Yossimar, special needs, void of speech but so full of laughter. His feeding tube looks like my grandmother’s used to. He smiles. Therapy every day. I can do that.
3 little blonde girls that look just like their mom. Annalise is 11 and just about an adult. She’s helpful and she plans dance-offs and she’s smarter than she should be. Abby’s 9, quieter, sweet, loves to dance, delicate and elegant. Jaelle’s 5 and she puts her fingers in the frosting while I’m making a cake. She asks me for pillow fights and whether I like her dress. She’s the queen of knock-knock jokes. When I’m motionless from Dengue Fever, she walks by every hour and says “you’re STILL not feeling better?” like it’s just the most shocking thing every time.
Josiah’s his dad’s boy, 7 years old and all too quick to climb on top of the Land Rover to pass our 50-pound bags down to us. I ask him if he likes it when teams come. He says, “Well, only if they’re a good team. Not if they’re a bad team.” Honesty. I like it. He calls me Kel. He also calls me crazy.
And I know, that first night, before I’m even three bites into dinner, that this one’s gonna hurt. My heart pulls back, bracing itself for another goodbye. I won’t let it, though. I never do. No surprises here.
One week in, I’m leaving the house to go to town for a couple hours. “Bye kids, love you!” as I’m out the door. I stop for a second with Melissa, the miracle mother, surprised by my own words. “Oops, I didn’t mean to tell your kids I love them,” because I’m all too aware of the abandonment that can come from short-term missions. She smiles. “It’s okay, it slips out.”
When Paul’s leaving the church in Acts, he tells them he’ll never see them again. He tells them he loves them and longs to be with them, but he never will. Not until Heaven. Then, they all weep. They walk him to his ship.
Today, I’m weeping.
Genesis asks me where I’m sleeping tonight.
“I’m not sleeping here tonight.”
“But you’ll come back after you sleep?”
I won’t. She knows it. She hugs me tighter. She gives me her frowny lip.
I hate it. God loves it. Maybe I can love it, too.
In Spanish, goodbye is “adiós,” of course. “A Diós.” Literally, the translation is “to God.” “Go with God.”
Honduras, Goodwins:
Adiós. I love you, and I mean it this time.
With God, right?
