David Anguish
Unlike Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone, it has not been a quiet week in my home. The turmoil is not on the surface, but it's not far below it. Because it is so much a part of our lives right now, and because I suspect I'm not the only one who needs a reminder of the lesson, I venture to share a little bit about this week and the lesson I've had to remember as it passes.
Let me start at the beginning, almost nineteen years ago. Back when two decades seemed like all the time in the world. Time to do things right. Time to avoid the mistakes of others. Time to not allow the rat race to eat up precious moments. Now, those nineteen years are like a finger snap. Where did the time go? How could I have left so much undone? So much unsaid?
That picture of Santa. That time when he and a friend thought a head-to-toe mud bath would be more fun than watching their softball-playing dads act like they were still young. The sinking, yet also amusing feeling upon being told that his incredible curiosity had led him to push that button, leading in turn to some bewildered workers and teachers when the police raced up to the pizza place to answer the silent alarm. The day we all cheered just because he stayed in the box and took a strike. The time his classmates made him feel more special than all the world because he came home with the plaque that said "first place."
The questions. Not his, mine. "How'd your day go?" "What did you learn today?" "Did you win?" "Don't you know that sign said 'stop,' not 'pause'?" "Well, which school is first? You've got to decide soon, you know."
He has decided. It's that decision which prompts the turmoil. My oldest son, who remained nameless the first two days of his life because his Daddy took giving him a name so seriously (he'll wear it forever, after all) is leaving home. I know he'll visit. I know we'll still have some influence. Some input. Perhaps, in some cases, even some control. But it will never be the same. We've pretty much done what we will do.
Please don't think I'm in some deep depression over this important change in our lives. Am I ready for him to go? Yes. I'm proud of him. Hopeful for him. Eager to see how he'll do, what he'll accomplish. Still, I confess the emotions are churning.
Carlynn and I have laughed often about a basic difference between us. I'm more logical (which she often reminds me is not always the same as rational). More analytical. More deliberative. But, as I've come to expect in our marriage, she's again the one who has first remembered and articulated the truth we've lived by since the day we agreed we wanted kids. Therein lies the lesson.
You see, from day one, we have known that our sons are gifts from God (Psalm 127:3-5). But they are gifts to be nurtured, not kept (Ephesians 6:4). They were born to leave. Not to imitate our faith, but to learn from it as they grew their own. We face a change which, in the course of life, is inevitable. Because it's the passing of a special time, there's some sadness which goes with it. But there's also rejoicing. We are by no means perfect parents, and he still has much growing to do. But with at least one son, we have done what we set out to do.
Son, may "the Lord bless you, and keep you; ... make His face shine on you, and be gracious to you; [may] the Lord lift up His countenance on you, and give you peace" (Numbers 6:24-26).
It's time to let the gift go.