We were surprised yesterday by friends from out of town. Well, more accurately, my wife was surprised yesterday. I was surprised the day before. Let me explain. Two days ago, early in the morning, I got a text from the female half of this couple with whom we’ve been best friends since college. They live in Florida; we live in Georgia. She wanted to know if I wanted to help surprise Celia, my wife. Of course, I’m always up for a little surprise-mongering, so I asked how we were going to do that. That’s when she informed me she and her husband were in town for some meetings and asked if we could meet for supper somewhere. We wouldn’t tell Celia; it would be a huge surprise for her.
So last night we ate dinner together, and Celia was successfully surprised. I even succeeded in getting her to the restaurant without actually fibbing (though I may have let one or two of her spoken assumptions go unchallenged). It was so awesome to see the look on her face when she realized we were going to have company—this particularcompany—for dinner. We ate and talked, and talked and ate, and laughed and laughed, for a long time, and at the end it was hard to say goodbye. In fact, the goodbye phase stretched out for quite a while.
It reminded me of all those times I would be with my grandparents on one of their visits to friends, usually church friends, and they would talk about things over my head for a couple of hours. My ears always perked up whenever my grandfather would look at his watch and say something like, “Well, I guess it’s time to get going.” I was at an age when words still meant something, so when I would hear that, I would think to myself, we’re about to leave. I’d go get my coat and head outside to sit in the car, expecting them to be along in a minute or so.
That was evidently an unreasonable expectation. Twenty minutes later, I would drag myself back into the house to find that they had only gotten as far as standing up. The conversation was going as strong as ever, and there was a fifty-fifty chance they would all sit back down again. I cannot tell you how painful those long goodbyes were to me as a young boy.
Now, though, I get it. I understand the emotion that wants to hold on and not let go—of friends, of family, of love. I’ve come to see Hell as nothing but an eternal goodbye, a farewell with no accompanying hello. In a sense, all goodbyes are a little taste of Hell. Goodbyes are always about separation, and so we tend to drag ours out in order to delay that separation as long as possible, even though we anticipate seeing them again.
Hellos, on the other hand, are little bits of Heaven. The last couple of times Jesus said goodbye or talked about leaving, there was the accompanying promise of a return, of a hello to come. Only this hello would be of a different nature—it would be a hello without an accompanying goodbye.
I’m going to get your room ready (don’t worry, there are plenty of rooms), and if I’m going to all the trouble to do that, you can be sure I’m coming back to take you home with me (John 14:1-3).
Look, guys, why do you keep staring up into the sky? This very same Jesus who just left will come back the very same way he went (Acts 1:11).
I’m not the only one who doesn’t like to say goodbye. In fact, I’d say I’m in pretty good company. I’m looking for to the day when goodbyes say goodbye forever and all we know is an eternal hello.
