There is an empty place in our
home today and also in my heart. David
packed up his belongings and we took him six hundred and forty miles away from
us to begin a new life at college.
After years of loving, holding, comforting, teaching, playing, training, giving, worrying and caring we took our child, who is one no longer, to a strange place full of strange people then drove away and left him there, watching him wave good-bye in the rear view mirror as we pointed our car towards home.
After years of loving, holding, comforting, teaching, playing, training, giving, worrying and caring we took our child, who is one no longer, to a strange place full of strange people then drove away and left him there, watching him wave good-bye in the rear view mirror as we pointed our car towards home.
It is a very hard thing to do, this letting
go, so bitter-sweet. But the bird has
left the nest and the butterfly has emerged from the chrysalis. Time can not be reversed but can only go
forward from here.
How am I supposed to feel? I'm really not sure. I am so conflicted with
happiness for David and this new opportunity for growth and adventure, then
sadness for how much I already miss him.
We drive home immersed in empty silence in a car that just a few hours ago was packed full of our son. I walk into my house and his bedroom door is closed, the room dark and quiet. No clothes piled on the floor, no rumpled blankets on the bed, no email and cell phone competing for attention, no music blaring from the stereo speakers or from one of the several guitars that once lined the walls, no crazy auburn curls emerging from all that chaos with a random joke, smile or hug.
It is eerily silent here and I feel immensely sad and lonely for this one who has brought so much joy to my days. There are others here in my home that I love just as much but they can not take his place. Not the easy, happy place that he always resides in. They can not fill the vacant space that his leaving has made inside of me because they each have a different spot in my heart.
We drive home immersed in empty silence in a car that just a few hours ago was packed full of our son. I walk into my house and his bedroom door is closed, the room dark and quiet. No clothes piled on the floor, no rumpled blankets on the bed, no email and cell phone competing for attention, no music blaring from the stereo speakers or from one of the several guitars that once lined the walls, no crazy auburn curls emerging from all that chaos with a random joke, smile or hug.
It is eerily silent here and I feel immensely sad and lonely for this one who has brought so much joy to my days. There are others here in my home that I love just as much but they can not take his place. Not the easy, happy place that he always resides in. They can not fill the vacant space that his leaving has made inside of me because they each have a different spot in my heart.
If I truly believe that everything
I have comes from God then I understand that this son was only loaned to us for
a time. God entrusts us with a child and
we are allowed to call him or her our own.
We are expected to be good stewards of this life and assist God in
making something useful of it.
So the formation begins with a parent’s persistent love and training, shaping and influencing through the years, spinning by as swiftly as the potter's wheel. We give our imperfect best to mold goodness, character, and purpose until the time when we finally take our hands off, when we must let go and see what becomes of this life we were once immersed in.
So the formation begins with a parent’s persistent love and training, shaping and influencing through the years, spinning by as swiftly as the potter's wheel. We give our imperfect best to mold goodness, character, and purpose until the time when we finally take our hands off, when we must let go and see what becomes of this life we were once immersed in.
The clay is formed now and our
child is responsible to make wise choices and become all that God has purposed
for him. My job is finished. My eyes are no longer close by to see, nor my
words instantly available to warn him of the trouble one poor decision can
produce. My ears are no longer
attentively tuned to the lure of the world that surrounds him. My hands are no longer the main influence
shaping him. Now, in his own heart and mind, he must see, hear and understand
the decisions that create an ongoing success of a life fit for The
Potter’s use.
I pray we did something right in
teaching him what he needs to know. I
think we did, but only time will tell the end of the story. I can only hope that all of the treasure
tucked away in this wonderful earthen vessel of our son will display the excellency
of the power of God, and not so much of us and our human limitations and
frailty.
As time marches forward and the story continues to be written, I trust that the wonder of seeing David’s life and purpose unfold will fill my very being with a greater joy, replacing all the emptiness my heart feels today. And even in this conflicting sadness, I thank God for the privilege of being His willing and humble assistant through these fleeting years.
As time marches forward and the story continues to be written, I trust that the wonder of seeing David’s life and purpose unfold will fill my very being with a greater joy, replacing all the emptiness my heart feels today. And even in this conflicting sadness, I thank God for the privilege of being His willing and humble assistant through these fleeting years.
I wouldn’t trade
one moment of it for anything at all.
“But
now, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you our potter; and we all are the work of your
hand.” Isaiah 64:8
“But we have this treasure in
earthen vessels that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.”
2Corinthians 4:7
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