Saying goodbye

I'm beginning this post in the van which is quickly transporting us to the airport. The driver was extraordinarily punctual; it is only five minutes after seven.

Moments ago, we had to say goodbye. It was even harder than I'd expected.

It wasn't our first goodbye.

Putumayo is where my son was born, where he spent the first three years of his life, and where he lost his family. It is also the place where we met our son and legally became a family. Where we shared our jungle adventure. It was very hard to say goodbye to Mocoa.

And Bogota is where Jhon spent the last two years of his life. A wonderful city that we fell in love with in the midst of appointments and stress. Bogota is where I was able to make the kind of friends that are only made when sharing such a deep personal experience. Although I've only known Carol and Steve, Megan and Michael for two weeks, it seems much longer. They have been a lifeline, a wonderful support to me. It is strange, but it feels weird knowing that we won't share dinner tonight, swapping jokes about the poor quality of napkins over a beer.

And even the staff. Although my Spanish is poor and their English nonexistent, they all were an incredible part of my time in Colombia. They all loved Jhon, tolerating his many questions and incessant chatter.

And Colombia. As we slip through the streets closer to the airport, I grieve for my son. At five years old he is filled with excitement and wonder. He does not understand yet what he leaves behind.

So, my stomach twists with mixed feelings and tears slip down my cheeks. Utter excitement and joy, knowing that in 15ish hours, I will see my family again, the very event I have prayed for daily for a month. And tears for what we leave behind. Good friends, a country and a culture.

And, through it all, I feel hope.