Hard to believe that next week at this time, I’ll be in my new house in St. Francisville, drinking coffee and blogging. We spent these last few days saying lots of goodbyes. Lots of goodbyes. It’s a good thing that we know we’re going to a good place, and going there to do the right thing. If not, this would be so very much more difficult — as difficult as it was to leave Dallas. Though the Dallas move was complicated by the fact that it wasn’t morally compelling, as this is — I was moving my family to what I believed at the time was a more secure job, given the chronic pessimism and instability in my industry — it’s also the case that by now, Julie and I have our resilience worn down. We’re sick and tired of moving, of telling people we love goodbye. Please God, may this be the last time.

Yesterday in line after church to kiss the cross, I thought, “This will probably be the last time I see Father Noah unless we both make it to heaven.” Then I kissed the cross in his hand, and he said, “I hope we see you again, and if not, then God willing, we will see each other in heaven.” And I thought thank God for the hope of everlasting life, and reunions that never end. Otherwise, these goodbyes would be unbearable.

Putting on our seatbelts in the church parking lot, I said to Julie, “Why are you crying?” As if I had to ask.

“That would have been a wonderful church for our kids to grow up in,” she said.

People here have been so good to us. The Philadelphia area is such a good place to make one’s home. It’s difficult to dwell on that much just now. There are boxes to pack, things to do, and a long, long drive ahead of us, which we’ll undertake on Thursday morning, bright and early.