Lyons - Freefall to Fly

THE TEARS FLOWED with reckless abandon. Face buried, I tried to muffle the ugliness of my guttural cry. Shoulders heaving as I struggled for breath. Lifting my head, I gazed at our closest friends, one by one. I held that moment as long as possible, wishing I could freeze time. Embarrassment mingled with surprise as I tried in vain to speak.

We gathered that lazy June night in Barnsley Gardens near our home in Georgia. Strolling through manicured grounds bursting with peonies, lilacs, and azaleas, we shot group candids from every angle. Clamoring to capture this nights memory through a camera lens. The lovely setting provided space to wander and reminisce before heading inside for dinner.

Now gathered around a U-shaped table, we roared with laughter. The toasts were coming long and loud, each speechs bravado surpassing the one before as glasses clinked and cheers rang out. A night of celebration, laughing, remembering.

True friends. Friends who show up at 3:00 a.m. when you rush your child to the ER kind of friends. Some we had known for only two years, and others for more than a quarter century. My husband, Gabe, sat across from Jason, his friend since second grade. We joked that they shared their twenty-fifth anniversary long before Gabe and I would. Some who journeyed with us had already moved on, but these friends remained and were as real as the air in our lungs. And that meant something. Sojourners who together had weathered job loss, career changes, infertility, adoption, new life, and even a death that came far too soon for one of us.

Try as we might to keep things light, a heaviness hung in the air, ready to descend upon the first moment of delayed silence. You cant get through a night like that without a wave of emotional delirium crashing into a sea of tears. Memory lane took an awkward turn into terms of endearment, but still none of us wanted to admit the real reason for our gathering.

We were saying good-bye.

Thirteen years earlier, my husband and I had moved to Atlanta from Virginia. Recent college graduates. Newlyweds. Armed with eager idealism, we found in Georgia everything we were looking for: a church where we made our faith our own, dream jobs that gave permission for our natural talents to soar, a community that celebrated every milestone as a family. Yet our time was not without struggle.

Our first son, Cade, was born with Down syndrome. A dear friend died of a heart attack in my husbands and another friends grasp. Moments of bliss were accompanied by moments of tragedy. We pressed into each other as we walked one day at a time.

These people and this city had become my home. My family. My safety. My security. Some of my lifes greatest questions had been answered here, and I had established a routine. Margin existed for preparing healthy meals for my three kids, infrequent scrapbooking, dabbling in sewing and DIY projects, hosting celebrations ranging from egg hunts to summer cookouts. Everything seemed perfect. As it should be.

But now we were leaving it all behind.

For New York City, no less.

Sunshine pierced the sky the day the restlessness began. It was a glorious day in August three years prior. Gabe had just finished giving an impassioned talk on engaging culture at Trinity Grace Church on Manhattans Upper West Side. We left our kids with their grandparents in Atlanta for the weekend, freeing us to bask in the citys glow. Our lively party headed to Le Monde immediately following, where we huddled over poached eggs and waffles, listening to Pastor Jon Tyson cast a vision for us to join him. His rogue Australian accent marked with passion made him difficult to ignore.

Though we had never considered living in New York, the city represented hallmark moments in our relationshipour first kiss in front of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree and, eighteen months later, a fairytale weekend when Gabe rented out the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building to ask me, on bended knee, to marry him. The Big Apple was a fantastical city of lights, but it became a place of celebration for us, far removed from laundry lists and grocery shopping and paying bills. The thought that the two worlds might collide sounded crazy. Good thing we were up for crazy.