Beginnings and Ends
Labor Day
Labor Day signals the start of a new season, and you can almost smell it. This Labor Day began a new season for Dan and me. On Labor Day, Monday of this week, Dan and I sent our older son Dylan off to school. Not down the street as we have each fall for the last 13 years, but across the Pacific to study Japanese for a year at Nanzan University in Nagoya, Japan.
Saw it coming…
We spent eighteen years getting ready for this. I saw it coming the day he was born. I knew that some day he would walk away with or without our approval, with or without looking back— without US, and we would have to let him go. So I did my darnedest to prepare him, get him ready, show him the way, let him practice, and on that day which he would own, trust him with it.
…Or maybe not; or And I thought watching him learn to drive was hard
Watching him go through the airport security gates was the moment my parenting was all about. Everything up to now—helping him stand, walk, run—was so that he could not only walk away but also find his way home.
But this was harder than I thought, the hardest thing yet. Every day of his life, no matter where he went, I knew I’d see him in his bed at the end of the day—or as a teen see him at least the next day. But before he left Monday morning, he cleaned his room, neatly put everything away in its place, smoothed the bedcover as if to say there would be no messy bed tomorrow morning, no clutter on his desk to return to, no stream of hip-hop, J-pop, jazz or classical music coming from his bedroom. He had packed up, taken care of things just the way his mom would want him to.
The last hug
Saying goodbye, I wanted to pull him closer; it would be a while before I could hug my boy, now my young man. But you can’t pull them too close when you should be letting go. You can’t say “Stay,” when you need to say “Go! You're ready for this. Go for it.”
Dan and I fought back tears, not letting the other know. Which is just as well. For the last hug came from Dylan, long after we saw him disappear beyond the security gates, long after we got into our car and drove away.
Dylan had left his hug at home in a card Dan found on his pillow. Reading it, it was impossible to hold back the tears. He said how much he loved us, how thankful and appreciative he was. He wrote to his sister Noelle and his little brother Quinn that he would always be their loving brother. His was the last hug, one we will hold on to for a long time.
Beginning again
Dylan's leaving feels like a leg was knocked off a three-legged stool. You can't help but miss it, and it's near impossible to balance on just two legs—unless you keep walking, unless you decide to not just sit but keep walking into the future.
I realize that's what my relationship with Christ is all about—being able to go forward "with a future and a hope," as God says in Jeremiah 29:11. With Christ, I never have to worry about the steadiness of my own two legs because I'm walking with Him. I can brave new worlds, dare beyond the limited
understanding of my capabilities, be adventurous— not because I trust in myself but because I have confidence in Jesus Christ whom I follow.
So I begin again and again and again, one foot in front of the other, always beginning, never ending. Good luck, Dylan, God speed. We've got a great future that lies ahead.
coming next: to cry or not to cry
Labor Day signals the start of a new season, and you can almost smell it. This Labor Day began a new season for Dan and me. On Labor Day, Monday of this week, Dan and I sent our older son Dylan off to school. Not down the street as we have each fall for the last 13 years, but across the Pacific to study Japanese for a year at Nanzan University in Nagoya, Japan.
Saw it coming…
We spent eighteen years getting ready for this. I saw it coming the day he was born. I knew that some day he would walk away with or without our approval, with or without looking back— without US, and we would have to let him go. So I did my darnedest to prepare him, get him ready, show him the way, let him practice, and on that day which he would own, trust him with it.
…Or maybe not; or And I thought watching him learn to drive was hard
Watching him go through the airport security gates was the moment my parenting was all about. Everything up to now—helping him stand, walk, run—was so that he could not only walk away but also find his way home.
But this was harder than I thought, the hardest thing yet. Every day of his life, no matter where he went, I knew I’d see him in his bed at the end of the day—or as a teen see him at least the next day. But before he left Monday morning, he cleaned his room, neatly put everything away in its place, smoothed the bedcover as if to say there would be no messy bed tomorrow morning, no clutter on his desk to return to, no stream of hip-hop, J-pop, jazz or classical music coming from his bedroom. He had packed up, taken care of things just the way his mom would want him to.
The last hug
Saying goodbye, I wanted to pull him closer; it would be a while before I could hug my boy, now my young man. But you can’t pull them too close when you should be letting go. You can’t say “Stay,” when you need to say “Go! You're ready for this. Go for it.”
Dan and I fought back tears, not letting the other know. Which is just as well. For the last hug came from Dylan, long after we saw him disappear beyond the security gates, long after we got into our car and drove away.
Dylan had left his hug at home in a card Dan found on his pillow. Reading it, it was impossible to hold back the tears. He said how much he loved us, how thankful and appreciative he was. He wrote to his sister Noelle and his little brother Quinn that he would always be their loving brother. His was the last hug, one we will hold on to for a long time.
Beginning again
Dylan's leaving feels like a leg was knocked off a three-legged stool. You can't help but miss it, and it's near impossible to balance on just two legs—unless you keep walking, unless you decide to not just sit but keep walking into the future.
I realize that's what my relationship with Christ is all about—being able to go forward "with a future and a hope," as God says in Jeremiah 29:11. With Christ, I never have to worry about the steadiness of my own two legs because I'm walking with Him. I can brave new worlds, dare beyond the limited
understanding of my capabilities, be adventurous— not because I trust in myself but because I have confidence in Jesus Christ whom I follow.So I begin again and again and again, one foot in front of the other, always beginning, never ending. Good luck, Dylan, God speed. We've got a great future that lies ahead.
coming next: to cry or not to cry
posted by Pam Chun at 9:00 PM
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