That was not the end

This is not the end
This is not the end of this
We will open our eyes wide, wider

This is not our last
This is not our last breath
We will open our mouths wide, wider

And you know you’ll be alright
Oh and you know you’ll be alright

This is not the end
This is not the end of us
We will shine like the stars bright, brighter — Gungor, This is Not the End

What I remember about that day was the feeling that even if I tried to hold every detail tight in my fist, it would still somehow slip away. It was the shortest and longest day of my life.

It was the day we left Nepal.

The guilt of every small relief was deafening. In a few hours time, I would no longer fear the men who trailed my husband and sons through rice paddies, up roads. My next shower would be hot. I wouldn’t be wary of my surroundings, looking for threats, the next time I worshipped publicly. There would be no more rats drowning in my laundry bucket.

But mostly it was slow motion horror, all of it. The box of  sheets and blankets my babies had slept on, left for missionaries who would stay behind. Babita, holding my hand so tightly her knuckles were as white as my own. Our didi walking out the door with the contents of my spice cabinet. My husband, mute, staring at our children gathered together one last time, in one place. The sea of beloved Bible school students, wrapping their arms around me and saying, “Auntie, we will miss you. Maybe our God will bring you back.” The moment the man behind the airline desk refused to budge, and my 17 year-old daughter realized that her beloved labrador, her comfort, her baby, would not be traveling with us.

I remember everything and nothing. Because that is how trauma is. It burns you to the bone, leaving you scarred with the taste of the pain even as the edges blur and the picture grows fuzzy.

I was pushed onto a plane a year ago today with no assurances of anything beyond the fact that when my feet felt solid ground again, there would be people who loved us waiting to help us pick up the pieces.

It felt like the end. And in many ways, it was. It was the end of a whole season, a whole everything for my family. Many days, I see that shadow still creeping across my husband’s face, the faces of my older children. It was the end. And we survived. But now? Now what?

We shine brighter.

I do not want to be the cautionary tale. I never wanted to encourage others in faith through my loss and failure, but through my successes.  I do not want to be the poster child for walking through fire and coming out smelling of smoke, but intact. I do not want people to look at my children, my husband, me and say, “If they made it through, so can we.” But here we are. Shining, even as we feel God fill our lungs with a breath we never thought we would ever take.

A year ago today, it was the end. And though I still struggle to say it in my darkest moments, we are alright.