“Mom, there’s something wrapped up here on the counter. Do you know what it is?” my daughter asked.

Another child, wolfing down cereal at the kitchen table, calmly answered, “It’s a bunny and not too hurt. Dad stuck it in the towel before he headed to work. Told us to return it to the woods before we left for school. He thought that a few minutes in a warm spot might give it a chance to recover after a trip in the cat’s mouth.”

We needed to leave for school and I was in rush mode, anxious to get going. But I also knew I had to deal with the most pressing of questions: Could anything be done for this tender young bunny?

We huddled around the tiny, injured rabbit, hauled out of the protection of the woods by the feline member of our family. We checked for evidence of injury as bunny skin is paper-thin and easily pierced. But most of all we talked about good-byes.

“We’ve faced this same scenario many times before and this morning is no different. He is too cute for words but he belongs in the forest, in spite of this puncture wound,” I told the kids. And as I headed toward the door I included a little bit of self-talk as well. “The best course of action is to deposit him back to the edge of the forest. Nature will take over. It’s time to say good-bye.”

It is that good-bye time of year. The time mother birds watch their fledglings hop and flap and eventually fly from the nest for good. The time pledges of lifelong loyalty and friendship get penned into school yearbooks. When children carefully wrap end-of-the-year treasures for their teachers and wave farewell from school bus windows.

For most of my life I had little occasion to say good-bye. I grew up in a civilian community where people rarely transferred. The two young soldiers who grew up next door to me returned from Vietnam and most of us who entered kindergarten together also graduated from high school together as well. Most of my good-byes were more like “see you laters.”

Then I grew up and moved away from my hometown. A decade into my marriage my young family moved to the Pacific Northwest and joined a community that does a fine job of hosting its transient Navy residents. I have been saying good-bye ever since.

There is some comfort in the universal nature of good-byes. It is certainly a difficult task for most of us. But I struggle. I work mightily not to cry but I often do. And I grieve in knowing that I will never again see some of these cherished people.

American writer Jessamyn West once wrote, “Life is a long series of farewells; only the circumstances should surprise us.” That sentiment helped me the last time I uttered the word good-bye to my maternal grandmother. Her advanced stage of dementia, which robbed us of our history and intimacy, spared her the pain of a parting. Our shared faith gave me hope that our final good-bye at the nursing home was really a “See you later in heaven!” kind of moment.

My faith helps me most of all with the bigger losses and good-byes. When there is no avoiding a sense of loss I know by all the stories and all the promises made in the Bible that God understands my feelings. I can tell Him how lousy and sad I feel.

I also know that just as God draws close to me, He will draw close to those I love and care for. And when distance — as well as limited amounts of time and money prevent me from spending time with friends who have left the area — I can do something very positive for everyone: I can always pray for them, call, and e-mail.

So to the high school Class of 2002: You have filled my days and touched my heart. It has been a joy talking with you, helping you with your class assignments, and watching you experience all that is inherently wrapped up in a senior year. This is my prayer for you, during this good-bye time of year:

May the Lord bless you and keep you;

May the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you;

May He lift up His countenance on you and give you peace.

You mean the world to me and I am missing you already.

Joan Bay Klope is a freelance writer and a former editor of Christian books. E-mail her at jbklope@hotmail.com.