Change

I hate change. A lot. I'm totally miserable in every new place I go for about the first, hm, two years. Okay, not totally miserable but pretty close. It takes me a long time to adjust to new things. I like to think of myself as flexible and adaptable. And I do adapt. But only eventually.

My brother has just got engaged. (I'm not sure its okay to say that on here but given that he is the least faithful family reader of this blog, I think I'm safe for a little while - no telling, Rach and Jed). Of course, we were, and are, all thrilled. He proposed here in Zim, on a mountain at a game park during sunset. We went on a family holiday right after with him and his fiancee (who we all love and are so excited to have in the family). But... I hate change. The week after they both arrived and I saw my little brother with this girl, cosying up on the couch, whispering sweetly and exchanging loving glances, I freaked out a little.

"Josh is gone!" I wailed to my mother, "We've lost him!"

A bit dramatic but, remember, I hate change. My best friend is about to get married as well (they have both timed their weddings in overseas places remarkably conveniently). She's gone and lost, too.

However, the fact that I am able to blog about this means that I have got through the dramatic, oh-woe-is-me stage. It's hard to lose people whether it's to college, to new lives in other countries, to different stages of life, or to other people. But the difficulty of losing them and saying goodbye is rich. So say my wise parents.

I texted my Mum after saying goodbye to Jed on Wednesday: "Why didn't you just stop having kids after me? Imagine how happy we'd be."
"Haha," she replied, "Read CS Lewis, no joy without pain"

Around the same time I proposed a new family rule: no praying out loud before people get on planes.
We have this horrible tradition of sending off the Leaver with a prayer. We all huddle around in a circle (bags in the middle so no one steals them while our eyes are closed). Those who can, pray. The rest of us cry. Then Dad says the blessing and we're all a mess. And of course, someone has a camera and wants to remember this awful moment, eyes and noses red and streaming, miserable and pathetic. Great memories. My proposition was denied. Dad said that the moments of deep sadness are what makes life rich and meaningful.

And I'm sorely tempted to choose to have a slightly less rich life. It's tempting to want to protect my poor heart from all this horribly insensitive change around me. To resent people. To deny sadness. To live detached. But, unfortunately, I think my parents are right. Those moments of sadness and sorrow are rich because of what is behind them, because of what they represent. Friendship, love, joy, companionship, memories, moments, life.

And so, while I hate it, I'll accept it. And ask for lots of help and tissue to get through the adapting part.