The morning we checked out of the lodge, fear gripped me. After a couple weeks of driving each other crazy and watching Food Network, I expected to wake up relieved, but instead I was nervous. Still, I finished packing and dutifully drove my half of the caravan to our new house.

Tattoo Man stepped out for an hour to run some errands, and not five minutes after he left, the movers arrived with our shipments and very limited English. I have no helpful Japanese aside from “Good morning,” “Thank you so much,” “Excuse me,” “boy” and “girl” which I tend to mix up. I started off great: “Ohaayo gozaimasu!” I told the man with the clipboard. His face brightened and he rattled off a sentence in Japanese.

Great. Now he thinks I know Japanese. I don’t think he said any of the words I know.

I ducked my head and said, “Not much Japanese.” To which he smiled broadly and replied in broken English, “Not much English.” We laughed and resigned ourselves to a morning of grunts, knife-handing (open palm directing- pointing is considered rude), and “Hai!” (yes).

I stood in the heat, dripping sweat, as the men walked back and forth calling out numbers or pointing to the inventory tags on the boxes, so I could check them off the list. 4,269 pounds of boxes and mattresses were unloaded in an hour flat. We all looked like we had been caught in the rain by the time we signed all the paperwork, and then they drove away.

Tattoo Man came prancing back ten minutes later.

We couldn’t unpack anything except the kitchen, because our government furniture wasn’t coming until the next day. As I stacked plates, I found myself thinking, “Please don’t let anyone come to the door…I’m not sure I am ready to meet anyone here yet.” Ah….here was the source of my nervousness. For the next hour, I unwrapped mugs and mourned. I let the loss wash over me—I missed family, friends, blackberries, and monsoons.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Later I stepped outside, to watch the kids scooter around the cul-de-sac, and a woman crossed the street to greet us. I held my breath.

“Hi, welcome to the island,” she said. I grunted something in reply.

“You know, my best friend Anna just moved out of this house. I had about decided not to like anyone who moved in here. When you make a friend…”

Her English was perfect, but I couldn’t hear her well through my grief. She might as well have been speaking Japanese. The woman kept talking about her friend, and I smiled and clucked what I hoped were consoling sounds. Then the beatitude flooded back into my mind,

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

I will stand in her shoes soon, I thought. It will be my turn to welcome a new neighbor, even as I mourn the one who has left. When it was my turn to speak, I said all I knew to say.

“I’m so sorry your friend moved. It must be so hard. We are missing our family and friends, too.”

She smiled, and I was strangely comforted. I felt we had mourned together, even for just a moment.