September 26, 2009
PACKING AND DYING
Packing up a family to move overseas is an interesting, emotional, and intense experience. It has been a death of sorts, and—as we put our house up for rent and moved out of our established Vancouver neighborhood, a bit like going to our own funeral.
First, the grieving of the loss of stuff. We are going to live as missionaries in a long-term capacity. We’re saying we’ll be gone two to five years, but God only truly knows the real length of time. So, by definition, that means simplifying. Reality is, our furniture is mainly used, so paying for storage for years would by far supersede the cost of those items. Thus, doing a sort of material-triage, I whittled our possessions down to four furniture items that had been in the family for years, a bunch of art and books we’d collected, and treasure troves of my husband’s photography as well as scrapbooks. The one item that really made me lose it was my deluxe mixer. It was a medium-fancy one from (then) Meier and Frank that we received as a wedding gift. It had the attachable base, and the alternative hooks for kneading bread, which I never used. What I did use it for was dozens and dozens of batches of chocolate zucchini muffins made with my sons each August and September. We had managed to sneak in a couple batches prior to our Labor Day Moving Sale in which most of it went. The night before, I was on the kitchen floor surrounded by gadgets and crying like a baby—over that mixer. It sold to a little girl who was translating for her mother the next day for $2. My sons, too, fell apart at unexpected times over the loss of a bunk bed or a favored camping tent. It’s hard for any age of person to see strangers come on to your property, poke and prod things that you could almost call friends, and then unfeelingly offer a much-lower price. Like grief that broadsides you when someone has died, one of us suddenly would be crying without being able to verbalize why .
Then there is the loss of friends. We tried to balance seeing people with packing and deep-cleaning our house. Wonderful friends justifiably wanted to eke out another night around the dinner table with us. I’ll never forget a few very close friends who said they couldn’t bring themselves to say goodbye. So, they didn’t. It was more like, “I’ll see you on Facebook next week.” One friend threw a going-away party for a particular group of our friends, and she said she wanted to decorate the house with black balloons. It was an imminent loss that she (like us) was willing to face, even with dragging feet.
Finally, there was what I call the funeral procession. It was rather surreal as people did unique things in expressing their sorrow of the loss of us from their lives (at least for this season). One neighbor who is quite private brought over a card from her and the kids. Another neighbor came with her husband and hugged me over and over, saying how much she would miss us. There were tears from older people and peers and children, home-made cards, meals brought, and even a couple caramel Macchiatos delivered for this couple packing, again, late into the night. People accompanied/drove us to the airport and said things about impressions we made when we first met them years ago, surprising us by their candor.
PACKING AND DYING
Packing up a family to move overseas is an interesting, emotional, and intense experience. It has been a death of sorts, and—as we put our house up for rent and moved out of our established Vancouver neighborhood, a bit like going to our own funeral.
First, the grieving of the loss of stuff. We are going to live as missionaries in a long-term capacity. We’re saying we’ll be gone two to five years, but God only truly knows the real length of time. So, by definition, that means simplifying. Reality is, our furniture is mainly used, so paying for storage for years would by far supersede the cost of those items. Thus, doing a sort of material-triage, I whittled our possessions down to four furniture items that had been in the family for years, a bunch of art and books we’d collected, and treasure troves of my husband’s photography as well as scrapbooks. The one item that really made me lose it was my deluxe mixer. It was a medium-fancy one from (then) Meier and Frank that we received as a wedding gift. It had the attachable base, and the alternative hooks for kneading bread, which I never used. What I did use it for was dozens and dozens of batches of chocolate zucchini muffins made with my sons each August and September. We had managed to sneak in a couple batches prior to our Labor Day Moving Sale in which most of it went. The night before, I was on the kitchen floor surrounded by gadgets and crying like a baby—over that mixer. It sold to a little girl who was translating for her mother the next day for $2. My sons, too, fell apart at unexpected times over the loss of a bunk bed or a favored camping tent. It’s hard for any age of person to see strangers come on to your property, poke and prod things that you could almost call friends, and then unfeelingly offer a much-lower price. Like grief that broadsides you when someone has died, one of us suddenly would be crying without being able to verbalize why .
Then there is the loss of friends. We tried to balance seeing people with packing and deep-cleaning our house. Wonderful friends justifiably wanted to eke out another night around the dinner table with us. I’ll never forget a few very close friends who said they couldn’t bring themselves to say goodbye. So, they didn’t. It was more like, “I’ll see you on Facebook next week.” One friend threw a going-away party for a particular group of our friends, and she said she wanted to decorate the house with black balloons. It was an imminent loss that she (like us) was willing to face, even with dragging feet.
Finally, there was what I call the funeral procession. It was rather surreal as people did unique things in expressing their sorrow of the loss of us from their lives (at least for this season). One neighbor who is quite private brought over a card from her and the kids. Another neighbor came with her husband and hugged me over and over, saying how much she would miss us. There were tears from older people and peers and children, home-made cards, meals brought, and even a couple caramel Macchiatos delivered for this couple packing, again, late into the night. People accompanied/drove us to the airport and said things about impressions we made when we first met them years ago, surprising us by their candor.
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