Goodbyes

I sat up in the balcony in my choir robe surrounded by a community I had participated in for the last seven years as we waited for the service to start.  My eyes felt a bit wet as I reflected on my time in that space under the glow of the stain glass windows.  

I remembered that first summer of the separation where I consistently showed up for church even though in past years I took much of the summer off because it was where I felt I needed to be.  I would choose a pew behind people I knew so I could be close to someone familiar even if I didn't talk to them much.  The sermon series ironically that August was "Meltdowns - When Things Fall Apart."  Parts of each service would trigger me and I would feel tears silently fall down my cheeks.  On one of those early Sundays, a woman who had learned my name on my first Sunday at this church and used it every Sunday after, came and silently sat next to me.  This was a space that held my grief without judgment in my darkest moments.

Then I looked at all the people around me and all the people I could see below and was reminded of the connections I had made at church retreats and events, before and after services, and in the choir room.  They had supported me, watched me grow, loved me, and made me feel seen and heard.

Then just before the final hymn, my choir director took advantage of the mic to share with the congregation that this was my and another choir member's last Sunday and to share a few things about our journey.  He shared how I had been with them before and through the pandemic and spent a year during the pandemic recording videos of myself singing my part from my kitchen table for him to splice together with other voices, something that was so incredibly hard and took a lot of courage to do.  Through those recordings and regular Zoom calls, the choir was a constant even when we couldn't meet in person.

My voice broke as I sang that last hymn.  

And then we gathered at the front to sing The Lord Bless You and Keep You after the benediction, something we often do to end the service.  Except this time, my choir director had asked the congregation to raise their hands towards that choir to bless the two of us leaving as we sang.  My fellow choir members standing closest to me all rested a hand on me to send their own blessing.  I don't know how I made it through that song but it definitely wasn't with dry eyes.

The service ended with more hugs than I could have imagined from not only the people who knew me well but others who didn't even know my name until that day but still wanted to wish me well.  I lost count of how many people told me they loved me, would miss me today, and hoped I would come back and visit.