The time had come.
We had prayed and hoped for a last-minute change, but it didn’t come. I have been walking alongside two families from Ukraine, helping them settle into life here in the United States for the past few years. For one of them, their permission to stay was expiring. And now, it was no longer possible for them to remain.
So, before the departure and the heartbreak of separation, we decided to gather for a proper send-off, a final American meal at a local steakhouse. It felt like the right thing to do. If they were going to step into an uncertain future, they should at least leave with a memory of friendship, laughter, and a good meal. Yet beneath the clinking of glasses and the soft hum of conversation around us, there was no escaping the heaviness. Parents were going one direction, their adult son another. Not just goodbye, but goodbye and separation, scattered into different countries, different futures.
The room was dimly lit, the kind of warm glow that usually feels romantic or celebratory, but that night it carried a quiet ache. The flicker of candles danced across their faces as they leaned over plates of steak and potatoes. And then, in that small pocket of time, their words surprised me.
They said they were grateful.
Not bitter, not angry, not resentful. Grateful. They promised they would never speak ill of America, because here, they had experienced kindness. Yes, they were sad to leave, but their gratitude spilled out in waves. Again and again, they thanked me, not just for paperwork and rides and help with the details of life, but for standing with them, for seeing them. Their words pressed into me like a weight I wasn’t sure how to carry.
And then came the words I least expected: “We saw Christ through you, and it has made us rethink everything.”
I froze for a moment. It was a staggering compliment, especially because they were not Christians. I was humbled. The thought pressed on my heart: if they knew even a fraction of the goodness of Christ, they would never dare compare me to Him. And yet, somehow, in His mercy, God allowed me to be a glimpse of His love in their story. A shadow. A reflection. A flicker of His light in a dark, uncertain season.
Since returning from Guatemala, my emotions have been a whirlwind, already stretched thin with goodbyes, change, and the weight of transition. And that night, as I drove home and later prayed over this family, I found myself echoing the very same prayer a driver in Guatemala had once prayed over me. He had prayed with confidence over my pilot, over my journey, over God’s hand guiding the details I could not see. And there I was, whispering those same words over them, that God’s hand would be upon their journey, that His protection would cover their pilot and their flight, that He would lead them into the unknown with a care deeper than any of us could imagine.
God weaves threads between stories in ways we often don’t recognize until later. What was once spoken over me in a moment of sadness and sorrow became the prayer I now carried for someone else. And maybe that is how His love works, passed on, multiplied, echoing from one story into another.
Paul's Goodbye
The harbor described in Act 20 at Miletus was restless that morning. The cries of sailors echoed against the stone wharves, ropes groaned as they were pulled taut, and the smell of brine and tar hung thick in the air. A ship swayed gently against the dock, waiting for its passengers, waiting for Paul.
He had sent word to the elders of Ephesus to meet him there, too pressed by time to travel back to their city, yet too bound by love to leave without one last farewell. They came quickly, their sandals stirring the dust, their faces carrying the weight of men who knew this would be the final meeting with their beloved shepherd.
Paul stood among them, weathered by years of travel, persecution, and unrelenting devotion. His eyes were steady, but his heart heavy. He began to speak, his voice carrying over the clamor of the port, anchoring every soul to his words.
“You yourselves know,” he began, his hand lifting as if to point back over the years, “how I lived among you the whole time from the first day I set foot in Asia, serving the Lord with all humility and with tears and with trials that happened to me through the plots of the Jews.”
A murmur ran through the group. They remembered. They had seen his tears, heard his prayers, watched him endure. Paul’s gaze swept across them, and his voice deepened.
“I did not shrink from declaring to you anything that was profitable, and teaching you in public and from house to house, testifying both to Jews and to Greeks of repentance toward God and of faith in our Lord Jesus Christ.”
He paused, the breeze tugging at the edges of his cloak. “And now, behold, I am going to Jerusalem, constrained by the Spirit, not knowing what will happen to me there, except that the Holy Spirit testifies to me in every city that imprisonment and afflictions await me.”
The elders shifted uneasily, grief pressing against their chests. Paul’s eyes shone with a fire that no chain could quench. “But I do not account my life of any value nor as precious to myself,” he declared, “if only I may finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God.”
A silence fell. The men looked at one another, their throats tight.
“And now,” Paul continued, his voice softening, “I know that none of you among whom I have gone about proclaiming the kingdom will see my face again.”
At those words, the sorrow broke. The elders lowered their heads, some weeping openly, others pressing fists to their mouths to stifle sobs. The air itself seemed to grow heavy, thick with grief.
But Paul pressed on. His words, though tender, carried the urgency of a final charge. “Pay careful attention to yourselves and to all the flock, in which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers, to care for the church of God, which He obtained with His own blood. I know that after my departure fierce wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock. And from among your own selves will arise men speaking twisted things, to draw away the disciples after them.”
He let the warning sink in, then lifted their eyes to hope. “And now I commend you to God and to the word of His grace, which is able to build you up and to give you the inheritance among all those who are sanctified.”
The men nodded, tears still spilling but hearts steadied by his faith. Paul reminded them of his own example: “In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how He Himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”
When he had finished speaking, Paul sank to his knees there on the stone. The elders fell beside him, surrounding him in a circle of prayer. Their arms wrapped around him, their tears staining his shoulders, their voices breaking as they pleaded with God to keep him safe.
Luke records it simply, but the moment was anything but simple: “There was much weeping on the part of all. They embraced Paul and kissed him, being sorrowful most of all because of the word he had spoken, that they would not see his face again.”
At last, the ship’s captain called out, the sails straining against the wind. The elders walked with Paul to the water’s edge, their hands lingering on his arms until the last possible moment. And then, with one final embrace, they let go.
The ropes were loosed. The ship pushed off. And Paul was carried away, his figure growing smaller against the horizon, while the elders stood rooted on the shore, hearts heavy, yet strengthened by the charge he had given, and the grace of the God who would never leave them.
The Farewell
We were done eating and the time had come to say our goodbyes. The plates were cleared, the flicker of candlelight dimmed, and the hum of conversation from other tables blurred into the background as if the whole restaurant had shrunk down to just us. Looking back now, I’m surprised we didn’t take a single picture. But even now, I know why, we were standing inside a moment that didn’t belong on a camera roll. To lift a phone would have felt shallow, almost like interrupting something sacred with a flash and a click.
So we stepped outside into the night air. The restaurant lights glowed against the darkness, their reflection shimmering on wet pavement left behind from an earlier rain. For a while we just stood there, not ready for the night to end.
The hugs came slowly, one by one. Long embraces, the kind where you can feel the weight of unspoken words pressed into your shoulders. They thanked us again, again and again, as if somehow saying it enough times might carry the gratitude that words alone could never fully hold. Their English stumbled here and there, but it didn’t matter. Gratitude doesn’t need perfect grammar. It speaks its own language.
We spoke of hope. Maybe someday they could return to America. Maybe, if not, we could find our way to them, wherever they were scattered, in whatever country they might find their home. The words were filled with possibility, but the heaviness in our voices betrayed how uncertain it all felt.
Finally, the last hugs. One more squeeze, one more whispered “thank you,” one more attempt to stretch the moment out. But then came the hardest part, the slow, reluctant walk toward our cars. Every step felt heavier than it should, like dragging our feet against a current we didn’t want to face.
My kids and I slipped into our vehicle. For a long time no one spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the engine, the click of the turn signal, the quiet shuffle of tires against the road. I glanced at my kids’ faces in the dim light and saw what I felt, sadness, weariness, the ache of trying to process something bigger than ourselves. Words seemed too small, so we didn’t try. We just rode in silence, carrying the weight of goodbye together.
Since that night, we’ve heard from them. They reached their destination safely. A few pictures came through, smiling faces, a glimpse of new surroundings, and with them another wave of thanks. Their words reminded me again that even oceans and borders can’t erase the kindness exchanged in a short stretch of time.
And here’s the truth that steadies me: I don’t know the rest of their story. I don’t know if they’ll ever return to America, or if our paths will ever cross again. But I do know this, God allowed me the privilege of standing in their story for a season. To walk beside them for a little while, to offer help, to offer friendship, to offer prayer.
And isn’t that the mystery and beauty of life in Christ? That sometimes He doesn’t call us to stay forever, but simply to show up for a moment, to be present in someone’s chapter, and then to entrust them into His care.
So while the goodbye was hard, I rest in hope. Hope that God is still writing for them a story of goodness, provision, and grace. Hope that His hand will continue to lead them, even when mine no longer can. And gratitude, deep, quiet gratitude, that I was given the chance to see Christ’s love shine through the cracks of my imperfect self, and that, for a time, our lives were woven together.
