Last Sunday was the last Sunday.

When I wrote that line, I was beginning a story about some of our best friends who were preparing to move out of state. We went to church for the last time as a group of SoCal locals and I was sentimental about losing the geographical  closeness. I wrote it down while brushing my teeth, thinking over the day and what it would mean as the week turned new.

There were other lasts in the making that day. More than I knew.

I thought about how they had been encouraged to move out of state, among many things, by a sermon. The man had said something about leaps of faith being a tearing away. I loved that.

I saw both ends of that torn cloth, though. One you take with you. The other belongs to those you leave behind, their frayed edges left exposed, vulnerable to unraveling. I missed them already and they hadn’t even left.

Just because it isn’t easy doesn’t mean it isn’t good.

Earlier that afternoon, I had attended a small goodbye party for the wife, Mary. A cozy gathering of women from our years of bible studies. We met in the open patio on the second floor of our church. The views are amazing. I was facing away from the ocean, looking to the mountains in the distance. We sat on the comfy couches, me holding our other friend’s brand new baby, sharing stories from the past and hopes for the future.

Once they move, Mary’s son wants a dirt bike.

Women like to say motorcycles are scary. So some did, of course, because they kind of are. That’s probably why boys are drawn to them. We talked about my dad, a motorcycle safety instructor and driving ninja, and how he’d survived a few serious crashes and how her son would be just fine.

I glanced at the mountains and thought, “Dad has got to be out there right now. It’s too beautiful of a day for him not to be riding.” I wondered when I would get the text that he was going to stop by our house. He was out there, of course. I would know for certain later. Sunny, clear and warm. There was no other place for him on a day like that. I thought Dad was still riding. I’d see him later.

We would get the news in the morning.

Now that I think of it, that short conversation on the patio took place within the hour of his death. Maybe at the exact moment even. It was the last Sunday I would have a dad and I hadn’t known it was already over.

A young man, only 20, for reasons we don’t know, ran a stop sign. In a big rig. He pulled his truck onto the highway and stopped time for my dad. I didn’t know yet, but he stopped time for me, too.

We had talked the day before. He wanted to come by over the weekend and since he had a work obligation delay him on Saturday, I knew we’d likely see him on Sunday. He always wanted to come by.

Our last visit really was the last goodbye.

I keep thinking I’m going to get a text or call or he’ll just pull into the driveway. My husband will hide all the dog toys except one because Dad is such a giant kid that he makes the dog way too crazy. We won’t have to hide those anymore.

I still have one last packet of Carnation Instant Breakfast left for when he spends the night on occasion. It’s that semi-gross, almost like real chocolate powder you mix in a glass of milk and call it a meal. Who drinks that stuff anyway? My dad. He had to be the only one. I was going to buy a new box. That company will go out of business now. They lost their only customer.

This is not the first time we have lost a family member, not even this year. In our circle of friends and family we will travel this road together too many times to even think about. We live too much life to deny it. Or worry about it.

At least I hope we live that way, knowing and living open-armed anyway.

My dad tried to do that. He did what was in front of him and embraced that life was a vapor. He knew that while he couldn’t pick his time to die, he could pick his time to live.

Our friends left today.

They got in their packed-too-tight car with their tooth brushes and their hopes for the future and my other kids, the ones I didn’t bring into this world, but who are mine anyway. I thought of all the last memories we made with them before they drove away. Last beach day, last donut run, last crazy kid sleepover at my house. We picked our lasts purposefully, hoping to ease the tearing away for the kids. And the adults, too.

But I know they aren’t really the last. They are end caps to a season we’ve completed together. We will do all of those lasts again. Their kids will just get bigger while we aren’t looking.

The unraveling is already being knitted back together, but into something new.

It will do this, too, with the jagged edge my dad left as he tore away down a windy mountain road. Our side of the fraying is already being woven with others also snagged by last Sunday. It is something new and just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it isn’t good.

With a last look at the California coastline, our friends faded east. Stepping forward in faith, their cloth is tearing behind them as it is knitted in front of them. It isn’t the last goodbye. It can’t be. I already bought plane tickets.

Tomorrow will be next Sunday. The week will turn new with broken hearts and hope for the future, tearing away and knitting together.