Saying goodbye

I hate goodbyes. I always have. Usually I ignore them or pretend they aren't happening. When I first went away to college a few months shy of 18, Paige was seven. Up to that point we had shared a room and love of good bedtime stories. She cried and cried when I left. I still can't go home without Paige crying when I leave. It is almost a ritual. I hate that she cries makes a big deal out of my departure and she hates that I don't cry. She hates that I try to ignore what is going on. I almost can't help it.

When I left on my mission, I thought I had made it through the worst after walking through that MTC chapel door and tearfully waving to my family. Little did I know. Every six weeks missionaries go home. Every few months I moved to new areas. In Latin culture it is rude to not come and say goodbye when you are leaving. I tried to explain that I hated it; I would much rather slip away unnoticed. But more often than I not I would still go through the ritual so as to not offend the people I so dearly loved.

If I thought coming home was the end of "despedidas," I was wrong. At the MTC I taught English-speaking missionaries (coming and going every three weeks) and welfare missionaries (coming and going every week). The goodbyes continued: pictures, hand-shaking, occasionally a gift or note from a departing missionary. I did my best to smile and not think about it.

I was honestly angry with my roommate who--with good intentions--planned a "going away" party for me when I moved from Provo to Blanding. I didn't want people to come over and tell me goodbye. I didn't want to believe my life was changing as much as it was or that I might not see or email or call or hear from many of the people who had been such an integral part of my life. I did my best to just pretend everything was like it had been and to not have many "official" goodbyes.

Up until this month I haven't really had to face anything more permanent in the way of goodbyes. I had no idea how hard death would be. It felt so permanent to realize I couldn't see my grandpas again in this life. To see the lifeless body and the lid closing down and to see both my grandmothers left with empty houses. If I thought I didn't like goodbyes before, I have found that I don't like this kind even more.

Needless to say, this has been a hard month for me. I hate drama, but I feel like I have been on an emotional roller coaster as I have come to grips with these new alterations in my and my family's lives. Yesterday, at Grandpa Torgerson's graveside funeral, my dad had asked me to talk about where Grandpa is now, in the spirit world. My dad had asked me to mostly to give comfort. As I thought about what to say and how I could give comfort when I was so obviously needing some myself, I was so grateful to know that while death does seem more permanent, it really isn't. I just sometimes struggle to see outside the box and remember that in the long run this life is meant to be short. And saying goodbye is part of it.

I am just grateful that again I was able to go home and to say goodbye. As much as I hate it, I think it would have been harder if I didn't.