It’s not supposed to be this hard

Josiah moved out yesterday. I knew it was coming. His rental agreement with us was through April, and he didn’t ask to extend it. It’s best for him and for us that he live on his own, so it’s a good thing, but it was not easy to load him up with groceries and household stuff and haul cords and monitors out of his room and look at him and love him and miss him before he even left.

I’m not sure what led into it, but he spent quite a while on my computer looking at aerial shots of various parts of Niger on google earth and showing me where he’d been and who lived where. It was neat to see. Ever the philosopher, he also talked about the importance of remembering what we’ve been through and who we are. How it’s good to look back even at difficult and painful experiences; to not lose hold of what we’ve gained. I agree.

It was nearly 9:00 PM when he drove away.

And I cried.

But only for three minutes, because just then Andrew walked in with a dental injury that needed to be attended to, so crying had to be postponed.

Then today, I decided to brave his room. I just needed to get it over with. To Josiah’s credit, he really had emptied it. All that was left was Scott’s desk, the trunk that holds our photo albums, a cheap flimsy dresser that desperately needs to be put out by the road while modeling a FREE sign, and a little TV stand-type thing on wheels. He took his bed and bedding. Said it’s really comfortable.

I loosened the screens and brushed out the thousands of dead ladybugs. I dusted the few pieces of furniture. I used a whisk broom to get all the crud (and more thousands of dead ladybugs) out from along the baseboards and then I vacuumed. The vacuuming was hard because as I worked my way around the room, I saw all kind of things: the brown crayon writing on the baseboard from when he was a little kid, the AIM paper plates on the wall, the picture of him at the Great Wall – so young, so fresh, so innocent, so happy; I remember those days. The days before his heart hurt so much and before everything started changing. Tears. His Loveland trail map. The cross with the nails. More tears. And the “Resolution” document. The one he and Scott and Dave Brown signed. Rivers of tears. I just couldn’t leave it hanging there to mock me. It hurt way too much, so I took it down and put it in the trunk with our photo albums. Maybe that will be my hope chest.

I cried awfully hard. Maybe sobbed is the word.

I went to my desk and decided to do something productive. I wrote a Niger update that I think was pretty good. It helped. I checked with some other folks to see how they’re doing. That helped. I did a bit of research on some possible source material for a project I’m working on. It helped some.

Later in the afternoon I was pretty OK, except that I had to keep tilting my head up to see my screen clearly. I finally figured out that my glasses were dirty. When I took them off, I saw the problem clearly: they were splattered with dried tears.

Today it’s really hard for me to see the Llama’s stall, all clean and empty, but I know these words ring true: “Take courage, O, my heart! He’s sure to come back soon because he forgot to take his panini press!!!”

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