How to Say Goodbye

Yesterday was the goodbye lunch for the three year-long volunteers at Joseph's House. Amy, Anand, and I (or the "Bad News Bears" as we affectionately have called ourselves at times) sat in the midst of our staff members as we were honored with hopes, gifts, memories, and in true J. House fashion, incredible food. I always knew this time was coming. I always knew this experience was never mine to keep living forever. Yet as I rested in the love and pride surrounding me and my two friends (also known as the "little littles" apparently) I couldn't help but wonder, when did this end?

My friend Tyler, whose blog is on the list on the left, had an idea to write letters at the end of his service year to those who had impacted him. I would also like to do this. Perhaps it might be a sweet way to help me say goodbye. I am not leaving Washington, D.C., in August, but I am leaving an important chapter in my life and though this has been a year of goodbyes, this one is particularly difficult. How do you say goodbye to the best year of your life? This is a way.


Dear Barbara,

You used to live at Joseph's House as a resident and then, in one of those beautiful miracles that your doctors still cannot really explain, the love you received there healed you back into life. You got better and moved into your own place, yet you still return to Joseph's House and call it home. Actually, you call it your house and everyone else are just visitors you let stay there.

Getting to know you was tough at first for me. In many ways, who you are is the complete opposite of who I am. You: blunt, fearless, slightly over-weight. Me: polite, hesitant, not even heavy enough to give blood. You seemed so abrasive, so nosy, so . . . loud. You were always watching me, always commenting on something, always asking questions that seemed maybe a little too personal. I answered them anyway.

I think the breakthrough came when I frosted your birthday cake. A co-worker had made it, but I carefully covered the double chocolate cake with even more chocolate, just how you like it, and then proceeded to further decorate it with hearts and swirls and candles. It was the most beautiful looking sweet I had ever created but I did not think you would notice.

You did notice and you loved it. You almost did not let us cut it, that's how much you appreciated that cake. I kept on telling you that I did not actually make the cake, just decorated it, but it didn't matter. I had made it pretty and carried it to you with blazing candles and singing in my best voice and to this day you speak of that memory fondly. After that you finally learned my name.

You saw that I am a workaholic. I thrive under pressure, I enjoy being busy, I love being good at what I do. In college, being perpetually moving was like a badge of honor. Everyone was involved in at least two too many things and if you were not, you were underachieving. DC is a city that also runs on that same attitude. People here tend to be ambitious, career-driven, and overworked. The need to be successful, or at least to look successful, is huge.

And then there is Joseph's House, a place where what I do is not nearly as important as just being who I am. You reminded me of that. When I first came to Joseph's House, I was good at moving slowly. I flourished in the challenge of just being. My need for perfection was subdued by my need for peace. But then Ethan died, and I was scared to stop moving because it meant sitting with my grief. Taking time for relationships would mean opening myself to the threat of loving someone who would almost certainly die. My inner-workaholic came back. My hands were always doing something, my feet constantly running, my heart touching others but not allowing many to touch mine in return.


The busyness kept me safely guarded for awhile, but then began to drain me. I missed being in true relationship with others. I longed for the rest that comes from authentic work. I did not have the energy to love in the way Joseph's House asks me to love.

Barbara, you saved me. Every time you came to visit the house, you would plop into one of the comfy couches as the queen who you are. Then you would wait for me. Soon enough, I would come flying through the room, breaking the first tenet I was taught at Joseph's House: there is never need to rush. You would see me and yell: "Lil' mama, you better sit yourself down! Right now! Let someone else do that. You're not the only one workin' in this house!"

I would laugh and try to justify my errand and you would see straight through my lies. "Sit down," you would growl. You would literally growl at me. I would humbly lower myself into a chair next to you and then realize with surprise that I was tired. You would triumphantly smile and then inform everyone in the house that I was not getting back up until we had a full conversation. Everyone honored your ruling.

Barbara, some of those talks were ridiculous. You have no qualms asking anything. You drilled me on my sex life, demanding that you interrogate any man I began to date. You asked me all about my medical history, school performance, drinking habits. But you were also kind. You asked me how I took care of myself every day after spending hours taking care of others. You showered me with compliments and praise. You insisted on feeding me. You always made sure I was okay.

You taught me that I am more than my job. The work that I do is sacred and good, but it does not define me. It does not give me worth. I am more than what I produce or provide. I am what is left when the busyness submits to the courage of just being. You always see that and help me see that, too. For that I am forever grateful. I am glad we are friends.