Still I always look up to the sky
Pray before the dawn
Cause they fly away
One minute they arrive
Next you know they’re gone
After the wedding, we wake up slowly. Even Emily and I, who slept on the cool tile of the of the solarium, don’t immediately get up when the June sunshine splashes our faces. We were the first back, just after midnight, and the rest arrived after we’d gone to sleep.
We’ve come to Switzerland this weekend to celebrate the wedding of Rochelle, a former Black Forest Academy student, a Swiss-British-American girl who grew up on the steep, vineyard-striped shores of Lac Léman. The wedding was surreal and marvelous, complete with an ancient church in a steep Swiss village, an afternoon at a castle, a boat ride, and the traditional dinner and dancing familiar to all. It was a star-studded evening, magnificent and festive.
Now we’re sitting on the lawn outside of the bride’s childhood home, looking over the silky blue waters of the lake, eating breakfast. On the table is a generous loaf of crusty Swiss bread, along with butter, honey and Nutella. Our hostess, the mother of the bride, brings out tea and orange juice, encouraging us to dig into the bread and begin.
Many of Emily’s and my small group girls had been among the crimson-draped bridesmaids, and now they yawn their sleepy way to the breakfast table, laughing and collapsing into chairs. They tell stories from last night, last week, the years that they’ve known the young bride. They laugh about the breakfast–essentially good bread with things to put on it–and declare how much they’ll miss meals like this when they leave Europe.
“When I leave” is a common suffix today. Most of them are leaving Europe, and most of them soon. By the end of the month, this tightly-knit group of friends will be in Ontario, California, Oregon, Wisconsin, Croatia, and Korea. Only two of us will still be in Europe by the end of the summer.
I remember Lexi, a friend with whom I’ve worked, played and shared life for the last three years, once writing about Saturday breakfasts at Storchenblick dorm, where we spent a few weekends volunteering last year. We’d get up early and make waffle batter, then sit with cups of coffee at the counter, talking with the waves of sleepy girls that trickled through the kitchen. Those mornings were sweet, unpressured time to spend with these students we’ve come to love.
Today is like that. Ignoring all the work we have to do as soon as we leave the table, we linger. We sit in the morning sunshine, drinking in the hazy mountains and crisp air, the triple languages and good breakfasts of Switzerland. We memorize faces and voices, laughter and mannerisms, or at least record them with smartphone cameras, hoping to capture the moment. They go home to packed bags and empty houses, home to load their lives onto planes and on to the next adventure. This moment together, an idyllic breakfast above a Swiss lake, will be the last for a while. We cut slice after slice of bread, the dwindling loaf reminding us that our time here is limited.
It’s almost lunchtime when the first departure breaks the spell, taking the first of us off to Geneva, then to Korea. We stay a while longer, before finding our bags with a sigh, piling into the rickety van that will take us back. We wind our way down the hill to the lake, to the train station from which Emily and I go on to a few days of camping in Montreux. Untangling ourselves from the dusty seatbelts, we give hugs, shed tears, say a prayer as it begins to rain. Eventually the van goes west, and we continue east, further into the heart of these mountains.
We don’t always see them coming, these goodbyes, but this year has taught me that even when we know for a long time–for four years even–that eventual parting is inevitable, it’s still sad. We’ll still miss each other as we walk ahead, still long for home as we explore new lands. As we walk away, I find myself still praying for each of them, both that they continue to love one another well from a distance, and for the friends that they’ll meet in the new homes waiting for them. God will provide for them, as He does for me, that much I trust. Uncurling my fingers from the gift of these years–and this morning–I give them back to Him in thanks as we start a new chapter, beginning summer with a camping trip in rainy Switzerland.
Fly on Fly on, ride through
Maybe one day I’ll fly next to you
Fly on, ride through
Maybe one day I can fly with you