Waving Goodbye

Growing up, my bedroom window looked out over the driveway in our small-town tract home. My ear learned the sound of vehicles coming and going. When my dad left for work at Castle Air Force Base, I heard the door close and then the rev of his pickup. I would bolt for the window and peel back the curtains. From my perch, I was but a few feet away as he backed up. Expectantly, I’d wave, awaiting the return of his wave and smile. I didn’t fear for his safety, blissfully ignorant of his work as a B-52 navigator. And I loved when he returned later, sometimes the next day, often bestowing a few Chiclets from his flight jacket pocket. But if I didn’t get the return wave when he (or my mom) left, there would be tears. Guaranteed.

I returned the gesture whenever we left home. Our French poodle Collette sat on my brother’s bed, staring through parted curtains when we came or went. She didn’t wave, but I did, and her little face was the first thing I looked for when we pulled in the driveway later. Maybe I learned from her?

Even today, I’m waving. My granddaughter Ruby frequents the stairs near my office. When she goes up for a rest or bed time, she’ll pause, peak her head through the opening, and wave. If she knows I’m looking, she’ll drop a casual wave as she ascends. If I’m not looking, she’ll wait. I’m pretty sure I taught her that.

I’ve been reflecting on all this the past few days. As a resident of Allen, Texas, I’ve been shaken by the mass murder at the Outlet Mall a few miles from my home. I’m not alone in this. I’ve heard snippets of conversation in restaurants or the gym where I work out, friends finding solace in sharing their stories.

There have been violent acts all over the country. The human toll is staggering. I won’t comment on the politics of gun laws, nor will I draw theological conclusions. I have thoughts on those topics, but not today. Today, I’m just sad.

I grieve for the survivors. It’s a huge mall, vastly populated on a warm Saturday afternoon in May. Shoppers looking for running shoes or baby clothes, purses or swimsuits. They may have gone for a late lunch or met a friend for coffee. Students working a weekend job to save for college or families enjoying a weekend outing after a long week. Maybe a new couple on their first date. They saw images that can’t be unseen. Heard terror that can’t be unheard.

I don’t know any of the victims, but I’ve found myself moved to tears several times recently. There are eight casualties. Each of those individuals have myriad people in their lives who have been impacted. Two days ago they went to the mall, like all of us have done in our lives. Just another spring day, they thought. I wonder today who didn’t see a final wave from a friend, family member, neighbor, or co-worker. And then the tears well up again.