Nearing the End

I’ve been thinking about this post for two months now.

And I still don’t know what to say.

Today, the children finished their final exams. In a few days, we’ll celebrate with a school-wide BBQ.

Then, on the 20^th, they’ll all go home.

And I’ll still be here. 

I don’t yet know what my work schedule will look like during my last four weeks in Jordan. I might spend a lot more time in the office. I might be doing manual labor tasks each day. I might work with my precious Hazem full-time – which is, of course, what I want to do. (The deafblind children will continue to come to school during the summer.)

Besides the fact that working with Hazem has been one of the most impacting experiences of my life so far, there are two big reasons for this desire.

First, I was not able to work with Hazem anywhere nearly as much as I would have liked to this year. Given how much I’ve written about him here, many people back home are surprised to learn that I’m only with him eight hours per week. It was certainly enough time to fall in love with him, but it wasn’t enough time to foster significant developmental progress. So, while I feel prodigiously blessed to have become attached to Hazem, and equally blessed to have watched him become attached to me, I can’t help but wonder, “What if we’d had more time together?” I know that four weeks with him won’t really change this, won’t change much. But it would at least make me feel better. 

The second reason regards saying good-bye.

I got a taste of the pain two and a half weeks ago – the first time I cried when I thought about leaving the many people that I’ve grown to love this year. I’ve shed a few tears most days since. 

The pain of saying good-bye to our loved ones is alleviated when they say good-bye back. 

A tragic beauty emerges in our shared grief, which bears witness to our shared joys. 

But what if the loved one can’t say good-bye back?

What if you simply can’t communicate to him that you are leaving? That you won’t touch each others’ faces or hold each others’ hands tomorrow, or the next day, or for many, many days to come? Or perhaps ever again? 

At what point will Hazem’s underdeveloped mind realize that I’ve actually left? 

And what will his mind make of this realization? Will he feel abandoned?

Or worse... 

Will he be incapable of concluding anything beyond what I shared in a poem about another deafblind child several months ago? 

My friend is not. 

The light is not.  

He was, it was, and now they are not.

Oh God, where is the beauty in this?

I cling to the words of my dear friend Justin McCoy: “I think that when we remember that your attachment to Papa is endless and Papa's affection for Hazem is endless, then all things come together in a way that surpasses understanding. Peace abides in trust.”