If the first train left from Ohio going 80 miles an hour . . .

None of this is sinking in, you know.

I can talk about it all day long (which at this point actually makes it seem less real, not more), but it doesn't really penetrate the mind my words apparently spring from.

It's surreal. How can I possibly understand that I am about to lose (leave, which is almost the same) every SINGLE person I love, all at the same time? The other changes are interesting to me (figuring out what I'm going to need, how I'm going to avoid offending other cultures, how I'm going to cope with weird food, etc.), but those things become minimal when contrasted with this.

And so I go through my days one at a time, methodically working through my lists in my usual hap-hazard way. Somehow my lists are getting checked off . . . Yesterday I joined the church and responded to friends who want to help support me. Today I called a pastor at OM, got two immunization shots and another prescription, finished my Christmas shopping, and went by Bryan to say a few important goodbyes (which were very hard, by the way). Tomorrow I will clean the apartment, start packing, call my OM adviser, and bake cookies for the cookie exchange at the women's Bible study at Westminster. Thursday I will move back home, and Friday I will have my wisdom teeth out so they won't cause a crisis while I'm gone.

And all the while, in the back of my mind, I am incredibly sad. I don't wallow in it, but neither can I escape it. And honestly - I don't want to escape right now. I feel so distant from it all sometimes that it makes me worry about the long-term repurcussions. I'm afraid I won't understand what is happening to me until I'm sitting on the plane. (At which point I'll probably go into a glorious fit of sobbing and wailing and they'll have to sedate me to keep me from scaring the children.) I would rather do my grieving now, privately, and thoroughly.

But most of the time . . . I just can't. I do what needs to be done . . . but I don't understand.