Supervised separation

A buddy called and asked me to help him move.  I knew we were friends, but we're not that close, I jokingly complained.  Then he told me why: the judge had only given him 4 hours on Saturday to get a specific list of things out of his home as part of his divorce settlement.  My joke suddenly wasn't funny. 

We met up prior to go over our court-mandated instructions and introduced ourselves to the county sheriff overseeing the separation of the stuff of separated souls.  Once we arrived, the officer negotiated details between parties like which room to start in and which rooms were off limits.  As the moving crew, we feigned preparation checking and rechecking the tire pressure on the moving dolly while praying for the home, laying hands on the moving van and police vehicle, invoking peace and protection.

I wasn't prepared for this.  I'm not sure where I would expect to be trained in supervised separations, but I knew how to pickup boxes and move them and how to be a friend, so I met the minimum qualifications for the day. I also knew how to pray.  I prayed over each box that went into the U-Haul.  I prayed for each stack of stuff that was off limits.  I prayed for the hurt coming audibly from the other room.  I prayed for the resolve of my friend and for supernatural grace in this moment. 

With each box, the officer checked inventory, ensuring that only the pre-approved items left the house -- nothing more and nothing less, protecting both parties in the process.  He delicately listened and patiently waited.  Clearly he had been trained.

As we loaded up to leave, a peace came over my friend.  Fini. He'd never go back inside that house again; it was no longer his. This was a new start, but not a fresh beginning. Now begins a life of co-parenting and weekly hand-offs at the gas station; of protecting the children when they can't be protected.  It is really hard.

I left feeling confused: thankful to have helped, grateful for the officer of the peace, sad for my friend, confused at how it all arrived here. 

So we debriefed over some chicken fingers after the clock ran out and the officer of the peace gave his blessing.  What sense do we, the moving crew, make of this?  So we listened.  We listened to a friend tell his story and breathe, for the first time that day.  We prayed over his new home, laying hands on the beds and desks and TVs that would provide solace every other weekend.  We touched the door frames, blessing them with our sweat, as a threshold to peace.  There was subtle ceremony, but no sanctimony.  Blessings were bestowed by the unordained, laymen serving laymen. 

After the obligatory shower, I held my wife, grateful to load the dishes -- our dishes -- even if I did it the wrong way.