I’m sitting in a Bulgarian train compartment bawling my eyes out. I'm not lost or intimidated by the burly conductor man who smirks at my awkward attempts at his language.

Rather, I'm sad. I've just said goodbye to Krassy, the 30something single sister who's been my translator and traveling companion for the past six days. She's communicated my teaching to a roomful of Bulgarian writers and editors, navigated me around the city of Sofia using three different modes of public transportation, and even nursed me through a one-day bout with stomach flu. And in so doing, I've found her to be a hard-working, servant-hearted, kindred spirit.

Her final act of gracious service to me was getting me on this train for the next leg of my trip. And then we said goodbye. For now, and likely for good.

Fishing in my purse for more Kleenex, I realize afresh how awful I am at goodbyes. My immediate family lives out of state, and we’ve shared many bittersweet partings at the Kansas City airport. Sometimes my life as a single woman has felt like one big exercise in goodbye. And several years ago I went through a period where friends moved out of my geographic area about every six months. I was always excited for their new adventure in another state, yet inwardly so sad for myself.

In our transient society where comings and goings are more frequent, it’s tempting to stop letting others in. To go into self-preservation mode, avoiding new people and relationships knowing they also usher in vulnerability and risk.

But deep down I know that's no way to live.

I think of the impression that Krassy, as well as Daniela and Rumen and the rest of their ministry team, had on me. Their fingerprints are all over my heart, shaping and tenderizing it. Exactly what this sometimes-jaded singleton needs. In turn, they seemed grateful that an American would travel so far to invest in and encourage them. What an honor to be God's hands and feet and voice, helping to bestow worth and dignity in people so dear.

In the clickety-clack of the train wheels I whisper words to God, like the breath prayers I read about in an article before leaving the states. Bless Krassy, bless Krassy, I repeat, asking God to protect and provide for this sister who works so hard and lives so well in a sometimes-tough culture. And also I whisper Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, inviting him into the exquisite ache of meeting wonderful new friends and yet also holding them loosely. Sometimes letting them go.

As the train takes me farther from the city, the sky darkens and the starry host begins to appear. I stick my head out the window to get a good look, breathing in the humid air and marveling afresh at God's handiwork. As one who usually sees the sky from Chicagoland's light pollution, I forget what's hiding there all along. How breathtaking.

After we pass another tiny train station, with an agent standing out front waving a lantern to our conductor, I notice the fireflies dancing in the grassy ditch beside the tracks. Their lights blink on and off as we gather speed, creating a wonderful little light show in the quiet Bulgarian night.

Watching the display both below and above, I realize that some people in our life are fireflies and others are stars. Some come and go quickly, others remain constant. And our job isn't to choose which is which, but simply to marvel in the beauty of the light that God places before us each day—as wonderful and as painful as that may be.

The latest town is far behind us now; only the dark fields surround our night passage. My tears are dry; I'm all cried out. Engulfed in darkness and emptiness, I look up at those stars again, appreciating their constancy and the ever-present God who placed them each there. And just as it had to get dark for me to see them all, I realize sometimes I have to feel this relational void, this emotional blackness to be reminded of God's constant presence. To be grateful all over again that he promises never to leave or forsake us.

Somewhere in that dark Bulgarian field, important truths come into focus again: my empty apartment back in Chicago isn't home, traveling companions on this life journey are a precious gift for however long they walk with us, we are all just passing through. We are all on a night train passage, alternately marveling at and weeping over the view.

Standing at the window, foreign wind rushing onto my tear-stained face, the great gift of travel and missions and risky new relationships comes to me: an anticipation for heaven. Where there'll be no more goodbyes, and where I'll be free to meet Krassy, Daniela, Rumen, and the rest for strong coffee whenever we want. Basking in each other's and the Father's presence. And where we'll finally, blissfully, be home.