I still remember Match Day for the students who were a year ahead of my husband in medical school. It was both a culmination of their 20-year-long education and the official launch into their career specialty—a rite of passage that capped nine hectic months of visiting, applying for, ranking, and being ranked by residencies.
Illustration by Hokyoung Kim
For weeks leading up to the ceremony, nearly every conversation on campus alluded to either the National Resident Matching Program or the anxiety it caused. I observed closely, realizing that in short order the blur of activity would start for Elliot and me. And the frenzy would crescendo until March 1976—a whole year away—when it would be his turn to rip the envelope open with trembling hands and learn where he would begin his career as a physician.
I knew that would be momentous. But I was caught off guard by how much the current class’s Match affected me. It came as a surprise that such a large part of our social life got lopped off as friends instantly became unavailable. On top of completing med school requirements (a time-consuming proposition in itself), their to-do lists now included house-hunting and a long-distance move plus, in many cases, procuring childcare, schools, and a spouse’s job.
My attitude took quite a hit. With some close friends about to leave and the prospect of Elliot’s entire class scattering the following year, I felt untethered. Home suddenly didn’t feel like home. This was our second year in married student housing, and we loved both the community and our newlywed apartment. It had been our delight to fix the place up, continually adding, changing, and rearranging to make every inch of it “ours.” But now, everywhere I looked, I saw nothing but stuff that would need to be packed. Having never moved a household before, I got stuck on the daunting task it undoubtedly was going to be. And though I recognized that day was still far off, I didn’t know how to stop calculating the number of boxes needed for each room.
I tried to reason with myself: There are folks who move to an apartment for just 12 months, and you have more than that left in this place! You came here for three years, and over a third of that still remains. Enjoy these people while you’re all still together.
Somehow my pep talk failed to convince me. I stopped feeling invested in our first home and would no longer buy anything for it except needed supplies. Looking around at the books and records and wedding gifts, I just wanted to start packing. It appears I’d contracted an acute case of short-timer syndrome.
Thankfully, I didn’t wallow in it for the rest of my husband’s education. The goodbyes to the graduating class were hard, but I slowly adjusted and was able to enjoy our friends who remained. (Major purchases for the apartment, however, were still off-limits.)
Elliot and I moved many times since, and though farewells are never fun, it gradually sank in that those transitions are a normal, survivable part of life. In fact, as Paul taught in 1 Corinthians 13:11, giving up certain things is often necessary so we can embrace what’s coming next in our lives and mature. I now see all my relocations as part of a long, slow lesson of letting go. Over time, I learned to let tears fall at sendoff parties while simultaneously looking forward to the adventures and new friendships that inevitably lay ahead.
But I didn’t truly start to loosen my grip on the idea of life-as-I-wanted-it until a number of years later, when I met Jesus. Then began another long, slow lesson: absorbing the truth that this world—wonderful though it may be—is not my true home. What I’ve noticed is, the stronger I have grown in the Lord, the weaker the world’s gravitational force has become. And it certainly has been a process, aided by both the harsh realities of the world and the pull of so many loved ones in heaven.
In fact, when my husband “relocated” there after a battle with pancreatic cancer, some old feelings resurfaced—ones that hearkened back to those Match Day reactions I thought I’d outgrown. Suddenly, I once again felt suffocated by all my clutter and started getting rid of books, music, and other expendables. As I scoured the house for things to discard, I recalled my mom going through a similar phase in her later years. She’d regularly make trips to the Salvation Army to drop off a box of books or seldom-used kitchen equipment—in her words, “so you kids won’t have to be bothered someday.” Apparently there really is “a time to keep and a time to throw away” (Eccl. 3:6).
Assessing this unanticipated and unwanted stage of life, I seem to have come down with a new version of short-timer syndrome. In some ways, I feel ready to move on. The more I ponder the glorious future awaiting believers, the more accepting and even eager I am to get there.
But along with discovering so many exciting aspects of heaven, I’ve also come to learn more about what God wants for us and from us now. Clearly, He still has purpose in my remaining here. (See Acts 13:36.) After all, there is much to do—so many people to love, so many needs to help meet in my family and church. And beyond that inner circle, countless others are waiting (whether they realize it or not) to hear God’s good news. I’m motivated to share that message not only because of the eternal blessings for all who believe it but also for a selfish reason—there will be fewer permanent goodbyes.
The truth is that we’re all short-timers. Scripture puts it this way: We are “just a vapor that appears for a little while, and then vanishes away” (James 4:14). God has us in a place for His purposes, and He knows how long we’re to stay. For that reason, I’m trying to let go of my preferences and trust Him to decide my wheres and whens.
Parting is still hard, and I realize my emotions will continue to rise and fall. But until my final relocation, I am trying to achieve the same peace Paul knew and be content—no matter what (Phil. 4:11). As it turns out, what has proven most helpful in that regard is a short note I received right after Elliot’s funeral. It was from a Bible teacher I’d known for years—someone who had fielded my earliest questions about Christianity and helped me all through my faith journey. He wrote, “You will see him again and … have not lost him forever.”
That was a truth I’d understood intellectually until that point. But coming from a person with such credibility—as both a Bible scholar and longtime mentor—those words had authority and changed my purely academic understanding of heaven to something more rock solid and tangible. They were a life preserver during that initial time of upheaval. And over the past nine years, they’ve remained an anchor of the soul (Heb. 6:19), filling me with excitement for the coming reunion.
