There is a particular way people hug at airports.
Tighter than usual. A half-second longer than necessary. Something in the body that knows even when the mind is already thinking about parking and terminals and whether the gate is far, something in the body that knows this is not nothing. That the person leaving is taking something with them that will not be replaced by a text message.
Paul on the beach at Miletus. Kneeling. Weeping. Men holding onto him who know they will not see his face again. And what undoes me about that scene every time isn’t the grief exactly. It’s that they all knew. The goodbye was conscious, clear-eyed, spoken aloud. I am going. You will not see me again. I love you.
Most of our goodbyes are not like that.
Most of them happen without our knowing. The last ordinary Tuesday. The last time things were still okay. The last conversation before something shifted and the two of you never quite found your way back. You didn’t know it was the last time so you didn’t pay attention the way you would have paid attention. You were thinking about parking. About the terminal. About whether the gate was far.
And then later sometimes much later you realize. And there is a specific grief for that. A grief without a name.
Jesus in John 17 prays for the ones he is leaving. Holy Father, protect them. Not save them from the world. Not remove them from it. Protect them in it. There is a difference. He is not asking for them to be kept from loss. He is asking for something to hold them inside it.
That prayer is still being prayed.
Over every airport goodbye that went too fast. Every last ordinary Tuesday. Every person carrying a grief without a name for something that ended before they knew to pay attention.
You were held then.
You are held now.
Even in the not-knowing.
What goodbye are you still carrying the one that happened before you knew to pay attention that you’ve never quite found the words for?