Two and a half years ago I lived in Massachusetts on an Air Force Base called Hanscom AFB. A few houses down from me, I had a friend who I’ll call Mr. Henry for this post. He was in his late sixties, early seventies and he had a wife named Dorthea. She had MS (multiple scoliosis), a g-tube, and lived in either her bed in the dining room or on the couch.

I started bringing them flowers from my mom’s garden and talking with them every now and then—they didn’t have family nearby and it was just the two of them. We connected and started talking about faith, Dorthea shared stories from her childhood, and Mr. Henry would give advice on growing flowers. I brought them Christmas cookies, Valentine’s Day cards, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day cards, and treats.

One day I walked over to their house and told them I was moving to Washington state. And that was the least time I saw the two of them. A couple days later, on our last day on Hanscom, we were having a goodbye bonfire at a friend’s house—just down the street from Mr. Henry’s house—and a thought flashed in my mind: I need to say goodbye to Mr. Henry and Ms. Dorthea.

But I didn’t—instead I chose to continue playing the games with my friends. I prioritized my last moments with the other families and chose not to take two, maybe three minutes to walk over, say goodbye, and come back.

After we moved, I felt this guilt just weighing me down. I should have said goodbye, I should have gone over, I should have said, “I’ll be right back.”

But I didn’t. And it killed me. So the first year, I ordered them flowers to be delivered, saying that I wished I had said goodbye and that I missed them. I wrote them letters, and gave them my email and number. I got one letter back, during Christmas, and that was the only thing I heard from them.

Every night, I prayed that I would go back to Hanscom someday and be able to see them again. I swore, “If I ever go to Hanscom, I will see them and apologize for not saying goodbye and talk to them. And everything will be fine.”

I knew that Ms. Dorthea was sick and that she wouldn’t live very long, but I said, “God, I’m going to trust that I will see her again.”

In a way, I will.

February of 2024 I checked Dorthea’s Facebook page to see how she was doing. And I saw a post made by her daughter that said, “With deep sadness, my mom, Dorthea, has passed away.”

It was from a month ago.

I was devastated. Not only had she died, but Mr. Henry was alone, I was so late, and worst of all, I never said goodbye to her.

This September I surprised my best friend for her eighteenth birthday. She lives on Hanscom. And one of the first things I thought when I found out I was flying to see her, I said, “I’m going to see Mr. Henry.”

The month leading up to it was full of excitement to see my best friend but also fear—what if he wasn’t there? What if he was there and he hated me? What if I chickened out, after two years of promising I’d go see him? And if he wasn’t there, what do I do?

The stress made me want to cry, and in all honesty, I did cry. I was so scared.

Fast-forward to my trip. The second day, I decided I had waited long enough. “I’m going for a walk,” I told my best friend. She was watching a movie with her siblings, so I was good to go by myself.

It was about a five minute walk and in the process of going to Mr. Henry’s house, I passed my own house. It looked exactly the same.

Now, let me make this clear: it was an air force base. People move in and out every two-four years, and since his wife had died, I wasn’t sure if Mr. Henry lived there or not. And if he had moved, I had no way to find him.

But as I approached what would be Mr. Henry’s house, I came around the side. And in the window was this piece of furniture that I remember from when I lived there. As soon as I saw it, my heart began pounding even faster.

He was still there.

I ran to his front door and I stood there a minute before knocking. After about a minute, the door opened.

In front of me stood Mr. Henry, hair longer than I remembered, his beard grown out and the same bright blue eyes that stared at me in confusion. But he didn’t miss a beat when he said, “You came back.”

His voice and those words just broke me—the tears started flowing and pretty soon my mascara was running. But I wasn’t the only one crying; Mr. Henry’s eyes watered as well and he wiped them as I tried to tell him the reason I’d come.

I explained that I was visiting Hanscom for my best friend’s birthday and I wanted to come see him. I was so sorry about Ms. Dorthea’s death and that I hadn’t said goodbye and that the past two years I had felt so awful about leaving without saying goodbye. At this point, I was fumbling my words so much and couldn’t pull myself together and I just said, “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Henry was silent for a moment and all I could think was, “He hates me.”

“I haven’t gotten rid of anything,” came his reply. “Since she died. I, I couldn’t do it. Everything’s still here.” As he spoke, Ms. Dorthea’s cat appeared at his feet. More tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes as the cat rubbed against Mr. Henry’s leg. “I have nobody. Nothing. There’s a woman who stays and takes care of me—my breathing’s gotten worse and I have an oxygen tank that I need to use. I don’t have any family. I miss her so much.”

Again, his words broke my heart and I hated myself even more. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

We talked for a bit more—things I won’t share because they were personal—and then he told me he needed to go inside as his breathing was getting difficult. “Take care of your brothers,” he said as he opened his arms for a hug. I leaned in and when we pulled apart, I gave him a weak smile and walked away as he shut the door quietly.

I walked on the sidewalk back to my friend’s house, but I stopped near my old home and pulled out my phone. I was bawling my eyes and heart out and called my mom. She picked up and asked how I was, how the trip was, if my friend was surprised, and I answered her questions but then just stood silently, sniffling. She asked if I was okay and I told her what happened, how I felt so awful, how he had nobody, how I hated myself and felt like he was so disappointed in me, and how I wished that I could have said goodbye when I first moved.

She calmed me down, assured me that I had done nothing wrong, and that I did the right thing by coming back. “Not many others would have gone back and talked to him. But you did, despite what he might have said. That was brave and scary.”

My mom was right, as she always is.

And that is the hardest personal goal I’ve set for myself—two years of waiting to say goodbye and sorry, and I have finally achieved it.

And the whole time, God was behind the scenes, working things out for me.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
Romans 8:28 NIV

Thanks for reading! Have a great day and I apologize for the sad post, but it was something I wanted to share.
~Willow