Hole in My Heart

Last Saturday we drove to Livingstone to take Sara to the airport. She had been here almost a month, and I had treasured the days. After a year apart, we had lots of catching up to do. I found myself marveling at a daughter who is now a young adult instead of a child. I still surprised myself when I introduced her to others and announced that she is a math teacher in Tulsa. How can that be, I wondered, when it seems that she should still be a student herself. It was a joy to watch her do her job on the medical mission, interact with her friends, and play with the Zambian children.

Our time together passed far too quickly. On Saturday David and I stood with her in the long line waiting for the airport security check, wondering how to say goodbye again, wondering how much she would change in the next few months, wondering how we could bear to see her leave. All too quickly her bags were on the conveyor belt and she turned to us for our last round of hugs. We fought back the lumps in our throats and tears in our eyes. “Love you,” we whispered, and then watched her walk into the departure area. We stood and watched for a few more minutes, just to make sure she had no problems with luggage and tickets, and just to hang on a little longer. Finally, though, her pink sweater disappeared into the swarm of other passengers, and we turned toward the exit.

We waited anxiously on Sunday to hear word from Sara that she had made it home safely. Late in the afternoon a friend sent an e-mail giving us good news on our son in Austin. John’s schedule makes it difficult for us to communicate with him, so we often rely on friends to keep us informed of his activities. Then late Sunday night Sara sent us an e-mail that she was home. We sighed with relief and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for God’s blessings on our children.

I have decided that the best way to describe being a continent away from my children is to say I have a hole in my heart. A mother-shaped hole that aches—a gentle ache sometimes, excruciating at others, but always there is the ache to be with them. Like someone who deals with chronic physical pain, I have learned to live with this hole in my heart. And God is good to send me other people’s children who help me fill up that hole. I can always find someone here who needs my hugs, my advice, my cooking, or my scolding. But the hole still aches.