What Happens After You Leave?

a reflection on parting and the promise that goodbye is never the end

I’m having one of those strange yet beautiful moments…

where it feels like heaven is brushing up against earth.

I just got back from the movies with the kids in my host family here in Virginia. It’s funny—I never imagined they would become such a pivotal part of my summer. But somehow, they’ve become my favorite part of it.

It’s wild how quickly strangers become family.

The movie was nothing special. But the laughter, the shared popcorn, the whispers in the theater—that’s what made it memorable. It’s always the people that make the moment.

There are certain experiences that lock themselves in your heart forever. For me, it’s:

sleepovers with my sisters,

late-night drives with my college friends,

and worship with arms around shoulders, voices lifted in something holy.

And now—tonight—walking out of a theater with three kids who once were strangers, and now feel like pieces of home

It was beautiful.

And it was bittersweet.

Because as we walked into the parking lot, I remembered what the youngest—Ethan—had asked me earlier today:

“What happens after you leave?”

At the time, his question lingered in the air—gentle, but edged with a sadness that made it clear:

He already felt the goodbye coming.

I quickly reassured him and the girls.

I told them we’d be in each other’s lives forever. That they could text or call me anytime. That they’d be in the front row at my wedding—and maybe I’d be at theirs too.

We all smiled at the thought. It made the future feel less scary.

But here’s the truth I can’t stop sitting with:

This moment we’re in—this exact season—It only happens once.

And suddenly, I felt the weight of that. The sacredness of it.

We will never again live under the same roof, eat every meal together, watch movies into the midnight hours, do late-night Bible studies, and share every single day.

Sure, there will be phone calls. Visits, maybe.

But this kind of closeness? This beautiful reality?

It’s now. It’s right now.

And the ache that comes with that truth is almost too much.

Because we don’t always realize when something holy is happening.

We don’t always know that we’re in the middle of a memory. Until it’s nearly over.

I’ve always believed life keeps getting better.

But even still—some chapters are so beautiful, you grieve them before they’ve even ended.

And yet, in the face of parting and change, I cling to one truth with everything in me:

That those we love—those we cry over, miss, and carry with us—we will see them again.

One day, in a place where nothing ends and no one says goodbye, we’ll be reunited.

Whole. Joyful. Forever.

We’ll dance again.

Worship together.

Laugh without counting time.

My grandma will be there.

So will my four friends who passed.

And so will these three kids who have marked my summer with joy and wonder and love.

Until then, I’m holding on tight.

To the movie nights.

To the laughter and the questions and the ordinary, beautiful now.

Because this moment–it only happens once. And I don’t want to miss a single second of it.

But the best part?

Heaven happens forever.

And we’ll all be together again—with Jesus.

For eternity and beyond.

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” —Romans 8:18

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