I've been watching The Office (US version) since it first came out. I like to think that I know the characters pretty well. I was sad when they announced Steve Carrell would be leaving, but enjoyed watching how they treated his exit from the show. I was pregnant with Doug when I watched his final episode and I'm not going to lie, I cried like a baby. I would love to blame it on pregnancy hormones, but I've watched it several times since then and have cried equally as hard each time.
The part that's toughest for me to watch is when Jim (John Krasinski) realizes that Michael (Steve Carrell) is scheduled to fly out to Colorado that day, not the following day (as he has lead the rest of the office to believe). Jim and Michael share an emotional on-screen moment; I have read that the behind-the-scenes moments were just as emotional. It is evident, in seeing these actors interact, that they have the utmost love and respect for one another.
There is something both sweet and sour about people leaving us. I have been to memorial services that seemed like celebrations and funerals where the mother's sobs still echo in my mind. People have moved toward better opportunities and away from hurtful situations, toward new endeavors and away from beloved friends and family.
I have a friend I met only several months ago. I was invited to join a playgroup made of women who had, at some point in the past, attended the same church. I was grateful for the fellowship but apprehensive about joining a group of women who were so connected to one another. I won't lie, I almost didn't attend playgroup one day because I was having a rough moment. I felt like I wasn't welcome, even though that was not the truth. Truthfully, these women greeted me with love and compassion. They were not the problem, it was my perception of myself.
Within the past few months, this friend's husband had an opportunity to interview to be a pastor at a church in Iowa. It's happy news; he's been without a church to lead for some time. I knew it was a blessing and yet found myself sad that she may not live around here anymore.
There are other women in our group with whom she is close; I could see the mixture of sadness and hope in their eyes as her family travelled to Iowa to meet the congregation. We all prayed for her before she left playgroup. I had words I wanted to share, but truthfully I was still learning everyone's name! (I'm not sure why, but it seems to have taken me months to learn everyone's name.) I felt bad hooking into the collective sorrow of missing such a wonderful woman; after all, I had only known her for a few short months.
We received word from her, at a later playgroup, that her husband had been offered and had accepted the job. "It's only Iowa," we said, to reassure her. She seemed (and still seems) hopeful about the opportunity this job offers. We brainstormed with her about how to start a MOPS group and how to connect with other moms.
I knew a month ago that she and her family would be leaving at the end of this coming week. A mutual friend threw a party for her yesterday. I missed it due to my ongoing lack of organizational skills, but decided to meet up with them for roller skating later in the evening. I abstained from roller skating but visited with this friend and others who had bravely set aside their humility and strapped on skates.
I feel ridiculous saying that I will miss her because I haven't known her as well as others, but what does that matter? I will miss her on behalf of the other women, whose lives she's obviously touched in a deep and profound way. I will miss her laughter, which we had in common--we both seem to love to laugh (at each other and other people). I will miss seeing her face and her kids at playgroup, I will miss going out with her, I will miss the opportunity to get to know her better.
I imagine, when people move away, that while they are looking small on our vision's horizon, to the people on the receiving end, they are looking bigger and bigger. I need to remember how fortunate the people of Iowa are to be receiving this friend into their arms. It's sad on our end, but in each end there is always a beginning. I hope that this friend finds the next horizon to be as beautiful as the one she stares at in the rearview mirror.
No comments:
Post a Comment