24 Hours and Counting...

I am not a touchy-feely kind of guy. But on this particular weekend of each year – Memorial Day weekend – I always find myself quite touchy-feely.

For very good reasons.

But not for the reasons that you might think.

This is not to take anything away from the meaning of Memorial Day. My dad (of blessed memory) fought heroically in the Pacific Theater during WWII. And while he did not give his life on behalf of his country, he certainly gave his back. He suffered a chronically-painful back injury that plagued him until the day he died.

I have nothing but the deepest of respect for every individual who made the ultimate sacrifice so that I and my beloved family could live in freedom.

Memorial Day weekend is all of that to me, and so much more.

For whatever reason, our local college – Linfield College – holds its annual commencement ceremony on the Sunday before Memorial Day. The single saddest Sunday of the year for me.

Over four years, I grow rather attached to the college students who grace our modest sanctuary on Sunday mornings. As a church family, we love and embrace our college students. We receive them as a sacred trust, a blessing to our church family. A privilege bestowed upon us by each student who calls New Hope their church home away from home, by their parents, and by our God.

During the four years of their college experience, we share many, many memories together – some of which are church-related, many of which are school-related, much of which are personal. Such as meaningful conversations, meals where we break bread together, visits in our home, etc.

But on this one Sunday of the year, Memorial Day Sunday, it all comes to an abrupt end. They walk down the center aisle donning their caps and gowns, the somber stains of Pomp and Circumstances playing in the background. We endure a much-too-long ceremony. Their names are read. They are handed their diplomas. They march out. Introductions of family members are made. Photos are taken. Hugs are given.

And then we say “Good-bye.”

Every student, every student assures me that they will return to visit. Some do; most do not. Life has a way of moving on. Leaving those of us left behind to feel so… empty.

That’s how I will be feeling 24 hours from now.

Touchy-feely. Touched by, and feeling deeply an array of emotions that in one way I’d rather not feel at all. But in another way, emotions that I accept as a gift of God’s grace. Because every lump in my throat, every ache in my heart, every tear that I shed becomes a measure, a proof, a statement of just how much I love these students. And of how much better a person I am today because God graced my life with these precious individuals for up to four blessed years.

Congratulations, my Linfield friends. You will always be loved. You will always be missed.