They were three years old and going to spend the afternoon at friends’ houses. I imagined them getting stung by bees, skinning their knees, running into the street … or maybe just needing me.
They were six years old and trotting off to their first experiences with all-day school. I imagined them losing their lunch boxes, falling off the monkey bars at recess, getting left behind on field trips … or maybe just needing me.
They were ten years old and leaving for camp. I imagined them flipping over their canoes in the middle of lakes, finding scorpions in their beds, wearing the same underpants for a week … or maybe just needing me.
They were 16 years old and getting their driver’s licenses. I imagined them stranded with car trouble late at night, reaching down to change CDs and running off the side of a road, or backing into a light pole at Wal-Mart. And I imagined that maybe they wouldn’t need me very much, now that they had car keys and a measure of independence.
My sons are 18 and 21 now. I walk past their eerily quiet, vacant bedrooms and my heart aches a little. One son is just 10 minutes away, but he’s a senior in college and on his own now; we recently dropped the other off at a huge university to find his way amidst thousands and thousands of total strangers.
I imagine them getting their hearts broken, their spirits discouraged, their checking accounts over-drafted, and their bodies worn down by too little sleep and too much bad food. And I imagine that they probably don’t need me very much at all amidst the busyness and excitement of their new lives.
But then … the email comes from that big, big college. The one with words we didn’t really expect to hear from a teenage boy. Words like, “I love you” and “thanks for all you’ve done for me.” Not exactly, “I need you,” but something better — “I miss you.”
And then … the older son stops by to visit. To pick up some mail, to forage in the kitchen (looking very much like a bear in a campground), to take a quiet break from the noise of the house he shares with friends, and to give me a hug so that I know … he misses me.
There are miles now between my boys are and all the parental advice they probably tire of hearing and the chocolate chip cookies they never tire of eating. It’s bittersweet, inevitable, dreaded and painful … yet peaceful.
My husband and I emotionally exhale, wipe our brows and know that to some extent, the daily boot camp of parenthood is over for us. The page has turned and we’ll never again live in the same chapter of this book – the chapter full of trips to Disney World, Christmas mornings, Mr. Rogers and “Sesame Street,” pee-wee soccer, high school basketball, bug collections for science class, bedtime Bible stories and Saturday cartoons.
Now, more than ever, I hear some song lyrics I wrote several years ago ringing in my ears:
“… I could give all I have to give, live the life I’m called to live, but it wouldn’t be enough. All the love that’s in my heart, oh, it’s only just a start, because Jesus, they need You … they need You.”
We must all eventually let our children go and then wait and watch to see if what we’ve taught, nagged and loved into them will “stick.” It’s scary stuff. I guess it never feels like we have loved them well enough. Peace comes only in the realization that while they may be out of our hands, they’ll never be out of God’s.
He goes where we cannot; He comforts when we’re unaware; He protects while we’re helpless.
They may miss us … but they need Him.