Honesty Pants

Change is a train station. Grand Central in it's chaos; slow motion sprints across our faces in delayed breezes. This is where we are. This bench. This flat. This mind the gap sign. This crisp, spring air. This silence. We are all twenty-somethings shaking hands with a bittersweet moment. If we were a movie, this scene would play "Your Hand in Mine" by Explosions in the Sky. Because that is exactly what this moment in time is: change, an explosion in the sky. Or maybe you would prefer the enchantments of "the best exotic marigold hotel" by Thomas Newman. We have been together for most of our moments, laughed because of them, argued in them, wept for gratefulness since them. We are all still against the breeze, still against the silence. It does not know its own strength, this change, this re-arranging of lives. She will be next after him. And then we see it. The lights reach it's long arm around the brick wall curve. We are the only ones here now. The train slows. It stops. We hold our breath. We see him pick up his bag, walk resolutely to the gap, climb on, turn around. Exhale. Silence. We cannot speak - only wave our hand side to side. There are unwarranted knots in our throats, knowing there will be more trains that we will each ask us to surrender to where the track finds fit to lead. This sigh is not a surrender. This goodbye, a punctuation mark. Sacred and still. We all pray, privately and silently. Please, God, as we go each follow Your way, bring us back here someday, with testimonies of Your faithfulness and provision. This hope is what invisibly moves me to pick up my bag. Walk resolutely to the gap. Climb on. Turn around. Exhale. And wave my hand side to side. Where I am going, I do not yet know. Then hot tears. Crisp, spring air. Silence. Then slow motion begins to dance across my face to the candence of the breezy current.