The question should not have taken me off guard.
I mean, I had already answered the question a thousand times this week. But there I was early this afternoon, having preached my final sermon, with my hand on the front door. I was just about to walk out into the parking lot when a little girl rushed up, hugged me, and said, "Why are you leaving?"
This week, I've crafted a thirty-second answer, a three-minute answer, and a fifteen-minute answer to the question - and I have used them all depending on the circumstances. All three answers are short on specifics because there are some things I can't say and some places I can't go. By choice and by necessity, I've kept my explanations general and broad.
The little girl who asked the question as I was leaving was a visitor. Her friends had told her what was happening, so it seemed totally natural for her to hug me and ask her question. And she wasn't asking why I was headed out to my car. She was asking the much bigger question: "Why are you leaving?"
I think if I had known her, I would have moved straight to my thirty-second answer (the children's version). But since I didn't know her at all, I fumbled with my words and came up short.
Thankfully, she lost interest in her own question pretty quickly, and went back to play with her friends.
I, on the other hand, stood there holding the door trying to figure out how to take the next step.
I ruminated all day on her question.
Getting in my car, I went first to the hospital for my final IV antibiotic treatment. I can't figure out if it's ironic or merely poetic to preach your final sermon and head straight to the hospital for medicine. (There's probably a book in there somewhere.)
Then I went home and started cutting grass. That, in itself, is pretty remarkable. I grew up in a home where that sort of thing didn't happen on Sundays. And I'm all in favor of keeping the Sabbath holy. But for me, cutting grass is about the best way I know to hallow a day. For hours today, it was just me, God, and the grass. Which gave me plenty of time to think. And what I was thinking about most was the little girl's question as I walked out of the door.
Don't misunderstand what I'm saying. I know exactly why I'm leaving. All the same, it's hard to explain that to a perfect stranger who's about to rush off and play.
While I was thinking about all of that, something strange happened. Sitting on the tractor, I had the oddest sensation. I felt something that I hadn't felt in a long time. I couldn't figure out what was happening.
Then I suddenly realized that I was breathing.
Long, deep breaths. Slow breaths. The kind of breathing I haven't known for a long time. That odd sensation that I couldn't figure out was . . . my breathing.
And it felt really good to breathe.
I'm not sure if I'll ever see the little girl from church again. But if I do see her, I think I have a pretty good answer to her question. I'm not sure about all the details, but I think my answer has something to do with breathing.