As a Pastor’s Kid, I am no stranger to goodbyes. As a five-year old boy, I remember saying goodbye to neighbors and playmates in Dasmarinas, Cavite as my father graduated from the Union Theological Seminary and we moved back to our province in Isabela. I can no longer remember the names of my playmates and our neighbors then. Since then, I’ve experienced constant moving–from one church parsonage to another, from one set of playmates and neighbors to new ones every two years or so.
I don’t really have childhood friends that I still hangout with today. They’ve all been relegated to the dustbins of my past movings, almost forgotten except for the occasional remembrance and passing glance at Facebook. Though we may chat every now and then online, it’s just not the same, we feel the weight of the distant years between us.
My wife, though, has two bestfriends that have stuck with her since Grade School. Last week, they got together for dinner, together with the kids that they now have. Sometimes I wonder what that is like–having a friend who knows you inside out, who could remember every single embarrassing moment of your life, and who would know just by a single glance what you think and how you feel.
But such indulgence isn’t really available for a lot of us, Pastor’s Kids.