As a kid I moved around quite a bit. My family shifted around the country as my dad responded to job offers, and we landed in Lincoln, Nebraska, just in time for me to start junior high. So much of who I am and how I view the world has been shaped by these moves. I honed my skills of empathy as a I grew, in large part because I was often the new girl in the classroom. I began to read people more clearly, to figure out who they were and who I was in comparison (which, yes, has a downside as well!). I also developed a nice acquaintance with cities and geographies across the United States.

Aside from one year on Lookout Mountain and three more in St. Louis during my college years, I’ve remained in Lincoln for the rest of my life. For so many years we were the ones who left for new adventures, but for much of my adult life, I’ve become the one who stayed. Eventually I even moved back into the zip code of my teen years—which really threw me for a loop. The longest house I ever lived in was the first one I shared with Jeremy, though I bet we’ll break that record with our current address.

I’ve stayed.

And others, dear to me, have left.

The grief connected to others leaving is a slow-burn kind of grief. My life doesn’t change drastically when a loved one departs Lincoln. My little family unit remains stable. Our address, occupation, schools, and church stay constant. Meanwhile the friends are dealing with a tumult of changes, some that go quickly and others that move slowly. Perhaps it’s a bad job situation, or even a long interview process that leads to a job offer. With some girlfriends I’ve spent years praying for God to reveal the next step. The sadness in my heart is a delayed one, like a knife cutting painfully slow. There’s not much to cry about at first, there’s just the day after day of it all—the long unveiling of future plans. Houses get sold. Moving trucks are filled. And then there’s simply an empty hole where an entire family used to be. But I keep driving my kid to the same school—now minus a beloved friend—and on Sundays we keep showing up to the same place of worship—minus a beloved friend.

I often text or email or message with the words, “I miss you,” but surely that gets tiresome to the ones who have moved on. My sentiment is 100% true, but I wonder if they don’t know what to say to it anymore. Do they feel responsible for the missing part? Are they so busy trying to create a new life in a new city that dwelling on us left behind feels exhausting? I suspect yes on both counts. But even saying “I miss you” doesn’t feel like enough. The bonds we’ve created together have to become elastic in order for us both to survive. Time will tell whether the friendship will be sustained long-distance or whether it’s best to let the other move on to other relationships that inevitably require time and energy.

I am not the kind to easily let these bonds go.

I miss our friends with an intensity that sometimes surprises me. After years of finding comfort in these relationships, I often feel like a boat cut loose from the dock, only without purpose and direction for awhile. The friend who was quick and witty, direct with her words and love, who could handle my worst at any moment of any day has moved away. The one whose heart matched mine and had a gift for affirming others has gone on to bless a different community. The one who mentored me during the hardest years of life has left, and the one who nurtured my early marriage and raised babies alongside me now lives states away. More dear ones are moving on to new adventures very soon, and their departures leave another hole in our world.

As much as I grieve these losses and as much as I hate to say goodbye to these incredible people, my rational mind knows that the goodness in their characters is being spread much like dandelion’s seeds that blow in the wind. Wherever they go they will find new people and they will bless them amazingly. It helps to believe in a sovereign God who actually cares about the movements of our days. Though I feel terrible being left behind, I know that God has called them to new locations to do new things. And you know what? He has planted me here, to do things both new and old. I know that God cares for His children and allows these hard times to grow and stretch us, to make us more like Himself, to cause us to depend on Christ. So while my friends depend on Him as they start new adventures, I can cry and still depend on Him right here in Lincoln, Nebraska. He is doing a new thing… and sometimes staying steadfast and relying on Him is one of the hardest things to do.