This post is an excerpt from a brand new book, I Never Signed Up for This, by Ann Bowman. Listen to Ann’s recent podcast here on the Parents of Goers Podcast.
Throughout the weeks leading to departure, I thought I was adjusting and holding my emotions together. My daughter, son-in-law, and three young grandchildren moved into our house after divesting of most of their worldly goods and leaving their apartment. They bought one-way tickets and sold all that was left of their belongings — everything that didn’t fit into the three bags allowed per traveler. They had no end date in sight and no plans to return.
It stung that much of what they sold off had been gifted to them by my husband and myself. Throughout my daughter’s early marriage and medical training, we had showered the grandchildren with every toy, stuffed animal, and book I thought would delight them. My tokens of love and affection disappeared in a garage sale or were sold in bulk on Facebook marketplace.
For weeks our living room was the packing and staging ground for their new life. Clothing was washed, stacked, and packed into travel bags with all the air sucked out. Kitchen items and personal items were studied and pared down to the bare minimum. Things considered necessary one day were tossed aside the next as each bag was weighed and repacked.
There were just a few weeks left with my precious family. I wanted the time to be memorable and pleasant; instead it ended up being memorable and miserable. Tensions were lurking just below the surface with every decision made and every question asked.
Not knowing what else to do, I focused on creating memories with my grandchildren. I held tea parties with my granddaughters, complete with dress-up clothes and fancy dishes. I read aloud to them and took them for walks in the neighborhood. My heart kept pounding, “Is this the last time I will have with my grandchildren for a very long time? Will they be grown before I see them again?” I grasped at every last opportunity to create memories for them and me.
Three days before their Dallas departure, my husband and I convoyed to the Metroplex in two cars packed with fifteen bags, with my daughter, and her family. We stayed in hotels as they made the Sunday morning rounds at one of their sending churches. A luncheon was held in their honor, and church members were giddy with joy for these new missionaries.
People would find out we were their parents and clap us on the back, saying we must be so proud of them. I had no response. Pride was far from my mind. I was definitely not giddy. The best description of my state of mind was probably dread. I could offer no answer, just a tight smile and a nod of my head.
After all the sendoff ceremonies and church meals, it was time to head to the airport. Just as we pulled up to the curb to unload, my daughter turned to me and asked me to take all three of the car seats home to store or sell. “How sweet!” I said, “Someone will meet you in your host country with new ones?”
My daughter didn’t meet my eye as she explained that people don’t use car seats where they are going; there aren’t any seat belts in the cars either. I panicked, but it was too late for me to do anything — and futile to express any concern.
Close friends had joined them at the airport, helping with the many trunks and bags. It was my job to coral the three children as their parents approached the airport check-in desk. I worked hard to hold my emotions together, but on the inside I ached with a pain I thought would never heal.
Once my daughter and husband checked in, our group moved toward security. I kissed the six-month-old’s chubby cheek one last time and placed him in my daughter’s arms. I worked my way down the row of remaining grandchildren, son-in-law, and finally my daughter, giving farewell hugs and kisses to each of them. I searched for meaningful final words but did not trust my voice. I pasted a smile on my face and locked my tears up tight. I wanted my grandchildren to remember a joyful Nonna; I wanted my daughter and son-in-law to feel the support I was trying to fake. I waved until the little family I loved turned the corner in the security line and I could no longer see them.
My husband had already left the airport, grieving in his own way and driving one car back to our home, a four-hour drive. I would drive the other vehicle. My daughter had asked a friend to walk me to my car in the airport parking garage and make sure I was emotionally ready before starting the drive home. My false bravado released me from the friend’s care but lasted only a few miles down the highway. I pulled over into a parking lot and wept. Finally alone in God’s presence, I was honest. I was angry and hurt. I cried until I could barely breathe. This was not how I had planned my life.
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Ann Bowman is passionate about serving the body of Christ. Over the years she has spoken at women’s events, taught women’s Bible studies, and written articles for various magazines and blogs. With two daughters serving globally, Ann draws from that experience to mentor young women serving in missions through Thrive Ministry. She also earned her certification as a TCK debriefer through TCK Training. Ann and her husband reside in Texas. Together they raised four adventurous children who now live across the globe. Find her at Neversignedup.com and buy her book, I Never Signed Up for This, on Amazon.
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