Adios Amigos

First the school-leavers sang, then they left school.

Their graduation ceremony -- ballagas in this tongue -- was on a Saturday. A beautiful blue sky graced the outdoor ceremony, smack-dab in front of the school. There was enough wind to ruffle skirts and whip the dozen symbolic balloons away in the same hurry that many of the kids feel about leaving Heves in, frankly, any direction.

The underclassmen laced every hallway of the entire school with pine boughs and lilac, all the flora coming from the expansive school grounds. It’s quite beautiful on our little campus this time of year, even with the rusty tractors and uninspired statues cluttering the property.

The ceremony was long and in a language I don’t speak. There were no gowns. There was no ceremonial tossing of caps to mark the end. I clapped when others clapped. I smiled at their smiles, their tears, their hugs. I smiled at the flowers in their arms, set against anything but gray. The flowers of Hungary.

The most bittersweet moment was a simple glance in the graduation announcement. There was Jeremy Jewett, along with a parade of Hungarian names. It was the first time I’ve seen my last name used by the school.

But there, in the middles of the "Apples (Alma)" and "Bigs (Nagy)" and "Goulashes (Gulyas)" and "Smiths (Kovacs)," were four other sets of given names first, family names second.

Brian Ravenel.
Christine Osl.
Doris Norton.
Julian Swan.

Four years of predecessors, four foreign missionaries preaching the gospel of conversation. Still shining down on these Hungarian pupils in memory.

For five more years, until little TGIF Kristian and Smarty-Pants Eniko have grown from rambunctious seventh-graders to school-leavers on the brink of life, my name will be in the little graduation announcement at Heves High, smiling at new graduates.

That makes me happy.