Your hiraeth person: Love and longing after someone has gone away

Hiraeth. You might not recognize the word but you’ve most likely experienced it.

It’s a Welsh word pronounced HEER-eyeth (roll the r).

A couple of years ago we looked at hiraeth as it pertains to a place. Today we’ll consider hiraeth as it pertains to a person.

The English language doesn’t have an apt word to describe hiraeth so we describe it in a round-about way. Think person as you read the following.

Hiraeth can include “a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness….” (University of Wales)

“The Portuguese have a word, ‘suadade,’ which is the only true cognate for hiraeth,” writes Pamela Petro.  “[One meaning is] ‘the love that stays’ after someone…has gone away.”

Hiraeth has to do with a strong attachment you once had—but time, distance, death, or circumstance caused a separation and you’re keenly aware of that loss, and you yearn to reestablish that former intimacy.

A hiraeth person is a soul mate, a kindred spirit. A hiraeth companionship is something sacred God orchestrated. For reasons you can't possibly understand, His hand engraved that person's name onto your heart.

He used your hiraeth person to nurture your soul and spirit, to mysteriously shape you and define you and anchor you.

You and your hireath person touched a place inside that others couldn’t or wouldn’t. You shared secrets no one else could fathom. You were safe with each other. You handled each other with care. You never gave up on one another.

But keep in mind that hiraeth “…incorporates an aspect of impossibility: the pining for a home, a person, [or] a figure….” (Smith College)

Why impossibility? Perhaps because despite your fierce attachment to each other, the hand of God pointed you in different directions.

And because of that, the impossible distance between the two of you causes an ache,

a longing,

a restlessness,

a keening. 

You feel a pull, an insistent vacuum that demands to be filled.

But perhaps it will never be filled—certainly not if your hiraeth person has died.

And for those still alive?  Well, sometimes God moves in mysterious ways.

In 1993, God moved two families away from a lovely town on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula: He sent one of my dearest friends, Gayle, and her husband to Papua New Guinea, and He sent my husband and me to East Africa. Yes, Gayle and I could keep in touch with email, but that would never really satisfy. When we said goodbye, I believed we’d never see each other again. For years I grieved the loss of Gayle’s close friendship.

However—

“Sometimes you think a story is completed and all wrapped up,” writes Lawrence Kushner. “But then, decades later, something happens and you realize it’s not all done yet, it’s still in process.” (Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred Stories of the Ordinary)

I never could have imagined that 15 years later, both Gayle’s family and ours would move to Missouri—Missouri, of all places!—within a week of each other! For seven years we lived only two hours apart and had many opportunities to get together. What a gift!

Yes, sometimes, on rare occasions, God reunites two hiraeth friends.

But for the most part, I don’t think we can count on it. Finding one another again won’t likely happen.

In that case, you are left with hiraeth, 

that yearning that buzzes and tingles, 

it whispers to you, it nags at you—

and sometimes even shouts at you. 

It insists that you must always hope 

and wait 

for one more conversation, 

one more day together.

What are you to do if your separation is apparently permanent or your hiraeth person has died? Accept the impossible hiraeth-ness of your situation. Believe that God has a good plan for you. 

Live each day confident that 

you and your special person have 

"invisible lines of connection,"

an enduring fellowship 

known to only the two of you. 

It’s real, maybe more real and true 

than anything you’ve ever know to be real and true. 

Years later, maybe decades later, you still call each other’s names in the silence, and you recognize each other’s voices, and you call back.

You still sing in perfect harmony, yet only the two of you hear the tune and know the words.

Despite the distance between you, you’re inseparable: Your togetherness remains strong and sure.

Who is your hiraeth person?

Maybe a grandparent, parent, or sibling;

your uncle, your aunt, or your child;

a teacher, church youth group leader, or high school sweetheart;

a childhood friend, classmate, or college roommate;

a Boy Scout leader, teammate, or coach;

a colleague, mentor, or professor;

a surfing buddy, nanny, or neighbor;

a spouse, a first love, or the one who got away.

Hiraeth is something bigger than the two of you.

Despite the distance, time, death, or circumstance

that separates you from your hiraeth person,

you are never far from each other’s thoughts.

You’re still in each other’s dreams.

You are still each other’s heartbeats,

the blood that pulses through your veins,

the oxygen you breathe.

You still hold each other close,

and there you are complete,

you are at home.

"It well may be,

That we will never meet again,

In this lifetime.

So let me say before we part,

So much of me,

Is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me,

Like a handprint on my heart.

And now whatever way our stories end,

I know you have re-written mine,

By being my friend....

Because I knew you,

I have been changed for good.

"For Good," Stephen Schwartz

“Disburb us, Lord, when.…”

You want to entertain your memoir’s readers, but you also want to change your readers.

You want to write stories that show God’s everyday involvement in your life and your readers’ lives, stories that illustrate “everything is revealed to be in the hands of God.…” (Lawrence Kushner, Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred stories of the ordinary)

Within that context, make sure your memoir’s stories—at least some of them—challenge your readers to think, to ponder, to mull over issues below the surface. Challenge readers to turn from worldly trinkets and distractions so they can consider their lives’ substance and purpose.

The following prayer teems with ideas for your memoir’s vignettes:

Disturb us, Lord, when

We are too well pleased with ourselves,

When our dreams have come true

Because we have dreamed too little,

When we arrive safely

Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when

With the abundance of things we possess

We have lost our thirst

For the waters of life;

Having fallen in love with life,

We have ceased to dream of eternity

And in our effort to build a new earth,

We have allowed our vision

Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,

To venture on wider seas

Where storms will show Your mastery;

Where losing sight of land,

We shall find the stars.

We ask You to push back

The horizons of our hopes;

And to push into the future

In strength, courage, hope, and love.

Attributed to Sir Francis Drake, 1577

Did Drake’s prayer give you ideas for vignettes? I hope so!

For example, take the first couple of lines: “Disturb us, Lord, when we are too well pleased with ourselves.…” What does “too well pleased with ourselves” mean? What stories can you write about being too pleased with yourself or about someone else who was too pleased with himself? What were the results of that mindset? Why would/should we pray for God to disturb us over it?

Look at the next couple of lines: “Disturb us, Lord, when … our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little.…” What does dreaming “too little” mean to you? What results from dreaming too little? Why would/should we pray for God to disturb us over it? What stories can you write to illustrate that?

Sift through your memories for stories that illuminate “Disturb us, Lord, when … we arrive safely because we sailed too close to the shore.” What does “sailing too close to shore” mean to you? When did you sail too close to shore? What were the results? Why would/should we pray for God to disturb us over sailing too close to shore?

On the other hand, look over the third stanza: When did you dare more boldly and venture on wider seas where, as a result, storms showed you God’s mastery? Write a vignette about a time you lost sight of land, and as a result, you discovered stars. You’ll want to examine and explain what the following mean: “wider seas,” “storms,” “God’s mastery,” “losing sight of land,” and finding “stars.”

Stories matter. Stories make a difference.

Stories guide, inspire, encourage, influence, motivate, and empower.

Stories shape lives.

“Sometimes a particular story, or version of a story, is so potent,” says Ayd Instone, “that it becomes so interwoven in our lives that it defines the direction our life story takes and modifies behavior.… I’ve seen teenagers who changed the direction of their lives to become teachers after seeing the film, The Dead Poets Society.…”  

Your stories are important. Write them!

How an HGTV program demonstrated Jeremiah 29:11

A couple of evenings ago, HGTV’s House Hunters featured James, his wife Mindy, and their four children in their search for a house in southern California—but James was no ordinary man.

Born in Da Nang, Vietnam, during the war, James contracted polio in his infancy and inadequate medical help left him crippled in both legs.

James’ mother made the heart-wrenching decision to put him in an orphanage, no doubt hoping and praying he would find the help he needed.

Then, during the fall of Saigon, U.S. President Gerald R. Ford arranged emergency evacuation flights for some 110,000 Vietnamese, including two-year-old James.

James praised the American family that adopted and raised him and—then came the best moment, for me, of the program: James explained how thankful he was for his polio and for being given to the orphanage because, he explained, if he had remained in Vietnam, his life would have held bleak prospects and many hardships.

And isn’t that what Jeremiah 29:11 is all about?

“For I know the plans I have for you,”

declares the Lord,

“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,

plans to give you hope and a future.”

James recognized, and told HGTV viewers about, the blessings that resulted from what appeared, at first, to be disasters. Based on his words and his wife’s necklace, I’m sure James saw God’s fingerprints all over his life.

If you’ve been part of the SM 101 tribe for a while, you know where I’m going with this:

Think back on events that seemed all wrong, that threatened to destroy your dreams and hopes, that left you in despair.

Take a few days to take a long look at those events and search for God’s fingerprints all over them.

We often miss the most important Holy Fingerprints because we don’t take time to dig deeply and examine and think and pray.

Invest time in this until you can declare, like Elisabeth Elliot:

“The will of God is never exactly what you expect it to be.

It may seem to be worse,

but in the end

it’s going to be a lot better and a lot bigger.”

Write a vignette for your memoir showing ways that, despite seeming setbacks, God had plans to prosper* you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11).

You’ll find additional inspiration from these earlier blog posts:

Connect Your Dots, and my friend Barb’s cry, “Lord, You’ve said you’d make my path straight, so why is my path so crooked?”

You’re the bridge between generations past and generations yet to come.

Write your stories!

Your children, grandchildren and other readers

need to know they can trust God with their lives,

that He has plans to prosper* them

and not to harm them,

plans to give them hope and a future.

*The word prosper is, in Hebrew, shalom, meaning peace, completeness, tranquility, soundness, safety, and well-being. Here’s how Cornelius Plantinga describes shalom:

“The webbing together of God, humans, and all creation in justice, fulfillment, and delight is what the Hebrew prophets call shalom. We call it peace but it means far more than mere peace of mind or a cease-fire between enemies. In the Bible, shalom means universal flourishing, wholeness and delight—a rich state of affairs in which natural needs are satisfied and natural gifts fruitfully employed, a state of affairs that inspires joyful wonder as its Creator and Savior opens doors and welcomes the creatures in whom he delights. Shalom, in other words, is the way things ought to be” (from Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be).

“Sometimes you think a story is completed and all wrapped up. But then.…”

Recently I began compiling photos from my family’s three years in South America and inserting them among my written stories about those years. (If you missed my blog post, click on And then I remembered the weevils that lived in that flour.)

I’ve used one of my favorite snapshots in speaking engagements for decades, but …

Why did it never occur to me?

Why had I never noticed?

When I recognized it a few days ago, it jarred me.

I had always used the snapshot to tell about waves of culture shock that struck, tsunami-like, on my first day at that remote mission center.

The day I refused to unpack.

The day I plotted to run away from that place—the day I realized I could walk all the way home to Washington State—walk, mind you, through Central America, Mexico, California, and Oregon.

The day that, in the midst of my meltdown, I was standing like a statue in the kitchen, feet cemented to the floor for who knows how long, when—see that little rascal holding the snake? That’s Glenny Gardner. 

At the height of my insanity, Glenny darted into my kitchen, planted his two feet in front of mine, lifted his hands within inches of my nose, and with an enormous grin, hollered, “Ya wanna see a boa constrictor?!?!”

In my fragile condition, I glared down into his freckled, sweaty, beaming little face and—when I could finally suck in some air—I bellowed, “No! Get out!” pointing toward the door.

I’ll never forget Glenny’s shock. His glowing face dropped, he caught his breath, turned, and sprinted in the direction I pointed.

Instantly I realized I’d made a big mistake. The kid just wanted to welcome me to my new home with the coolest thing he could imagine.

I felt horrible. To make amends, I grabbed my camera and dashed out the door behind him. “Wait, Glenny, let me take your picture!”

So there you have it, the story I tell about my first day on the mission field. It’s funny now, but on that day, it was not. (And just so you know, I did not run away. That, too, is a story for another day.)

And this is where Rabbi Lawrence Kushner’s quote comes in:

“Sometimes you think a story is completed

and all wrapped up.

But then, decades later, something happens

and you realize that it’s not done yet,

it’s still in process.”

(Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred Stories of the Ordinary)

I’d like to paraphrase his words for memoirists: Sometimes you think a memoir is completed and wrapped up. But then, decades later, something happens and you realize it’s not done yet.

Exactly. Decades later, something has happened and I realize my story is not done yet.

Here’s what occurred to me in recent days: That snapshot foreshadows stories that made ongoing international news—events that touched our family and friends. Events that changed many lives, forever.

That picture is begging me to tell additional stories, much bigger stories.

C’mon back on Saturday. I’ll tell you what caught my attention and what I’m doing about it.

Between now and then, look over your photos. Perhaps you, too, will find clues within them that shout, “Your story is not done yet.”

Would you like the latest posts from Spiritual Memoirs 101 

delivered to your e-mail inbox? It’s easy! 

Type your e-mail address 

in the little gizmo in the right column toward the top.

I post extra tidbits and inspirational links on Facebook. 

If you don’t want to miss them, follow on Facebook 

(click in the right column). 

Your “Sacred Stories of the Ordinary”

Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred Stories of the Ordinary.

That’s the title of one of Rabbi Lawrence Kushner’s books.

I like those words. I like them combined that way. I resonate with the images they inspire. I especially applaud their meaning.

From one generation to the next, to the next: “Invisible lines of connection: Sacred stories of the ordinary.”

That’s what your spiritual memoirs and mine are all about!

“Reverence before heaven. Amazing grace.” Rabbi Kushner says, “It is a way of understanding your place within Creation.… When viewed from a point of high enough vantage, everything is revealed to be in the hands of God, as in the Yiddish saying, Alles ist Gott, ‘It’s all God.’” (Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred Stories of the Ordinary)

Your sacred invisible lines have been there all along, since long before you were born.

Try to take this in: God includes you in His sacred stories that span the centuries.

“Part of God’s infinite genius appears in how such humanness can play into the divine story.” (Beth Moore, James: Mercy Triumphs)

We humans—you and I—are part of God’s divine story.

You began with a plan God wrote:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope” (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT).

“The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forever more” (Psalm 121:8, NIV).

We discover sacred stories of the ordinary, Kushner says, “Throughout all creation, just beneath the surface.…”

You might think you live an inconspicuous, unremarkable life but, through the generations, God has been writing His sacred stories through you and your family’s ordinary events.

Look for a broader, deeper significance hidden in your everyday moments.

Take time to search for ways God has watched over your coming and going.

Track sacred connections that exist all around you.

Ask God to give you glimpses of His hand-written, just-beneath-the-surface stories.

And when He does, write them!