Of all the books I read in elementary school, there are two that I distinctly remember reading: Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli and There’s a Boy in the Girls’ Bathroom by Louis Sachar. I cried for hours after finishing them – I sat up after my bedtime with my poor mom, who listened to me blubber about imaginary characters, and she told me that I had a big heart. I couldn’t understand how someone could irreversibly change someone’s life and just leave – the injustice of it all shattered my fragile psyche. And yet some part of me almost wanted to have my heart broken, instead of reading about imaginary characters to feel it in my stead.
Fast-forward to 2005. My family hosted the young girl who would later become my little sister in a program called Journey of Hope, which connected young eastern European orphans to midwestern families for a summer. The first time I can remember being in an airport was picking her up at Minneapolis-St. Paul International, and the second time was when we had to drop her back off. We led her through the throng of people towards security, and watched her trying to stay in the back of the line so she could say goodbye one last time. It was the saddest I could ever remember being, and we remained silent as we made the long drive home. In just five weeks, we had both welcomed a young spirit into our house and watched it leave us, irreversibly changed. The next year was filled with translators and meetings and long-distance phone calls, but eventually we achieved our happy ending and my sister came home.
All of this was in my mind as I walked away from airport security for the umteenth time this year, shedding a single manly tear. This time I wasn’t actually traveling anywhere; I was dropping my dad off on a flight back to Minnesota after a 9-day abridged tour of England and Paris. All in all, we did pretty well: Oxford, London, Malvern Hills, Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Mona Lisa, Van Gogh… I had fun. It was sad, for a moment at least. Me and my big heart. Though all in all it was a much happier parting than the last time I had dropped someone off in an airport, as I knew that in less than two months I’d be seeing him again. But it occurred to me that my parents had been through something similar for three of their four children now… sometimes short term, sometimes long term. It’s funny how things work out like that, because I’d never have thought to call us such an international family, but since 2005 we kind of have been. I imagine it’s kind of mixed blessing for them, seeing all the places their children are going but also spending a lot of time saying goodbye in airports.
I remember when my mom first told me about the Journey of Hope program, and I remember five weeks later when she told me we would be adopting my sister. The future seemed like such a daunting concept even then, and through many tears and muddled emotions I told her that nothing’s going to be normal anymore, is it? To which she replied, no, I guess we have to find a new normal. I guess we did.