Places I Can't Go
One night in 2014, exactly 173 days before my first child left home for the U.S. Naval Academy, I wrote in my journal, "My birds are all in the nest. I feel uniquely secure when they are all tucked safely in their beds, just down the hall. I sleep more soundly on those nights."
Six months later, the day arrived for us to drop my oldest off at the military installation's gates in Annapolis. When we were allowed to see him for a short goodbye that afternoon, we barely recognized him with his shaved head and white plebe uniform. Then, too quickly, he fell into formation with a thousand others, marching into a storied old building to begin his new life under a new roof. I watched him grow smaller as he passed through the giant doors until he disappeared into the shadows of the foyer, and the doors slammed firmly shut behind him.
Though it was one of the more dramatic goodbyes I have said as a parent, the Naval Academy was not my first rodeo watching the kids take their next steps into places I could not go. When they turned five, I watched as they ran into school. I often stood by helplessly as they were rolled into surgery or MRI machines. I waved goodbye as they visited friends and went on school field trips. I will never forget when each child drove out of the driveway alone for the first time. Then came the days when each grew smaller in the rearview mirror as I left them at college. Later, I beamed as my oldest walked out of church and into a new life with his bride. The kids have lived on the other side of the country and the other side of the world. I had no idea parenting would be such an endless series of goodbyes.
I am grateful that the kids grew up and were able to leave home and fly; they are capable and thriving, and I feel excitement and joy for them in each new adventure. But sometimes, when I say goodbye before a long separation, I have a fleeting but powerful yearning for them to be back under my roof.
Of all the people and possessions I love and value, nothing has been a greater treasure than the kids. And nothing was harder to protect when they were growing up. They did crazy things – like trying to eat a bar of soap, touching hot irons, and jumping over a ditch while holding a stick. Then there were all the crazy world events to navigate – the DC sniper, 9/11, hurricanes, and the pandemic, to name a few. Under my roof, I could help them flourish through it all and be a buffer against the world’s harsher realities. I could coach them through their trials, bandage scrapes when their bicycle forays went awry, encourage them when they failed, support them when their responsibilities grew overwhelming, and hug them when they were sad. Most of all, I could point them to God.
We sleep more soundly when they are under our roofs because years of parenting can give the illusion that kids are somehow safer with us and that we have some control over their health, safety, success, or soul. Countless hours spent nursing and nurturing them fuels this fantasy. We keep them from running into the street, making bad choices, and eating cookies for breakfast. We are given extensive influence in their lives for a long season, but when that season ends, the powerful desire to see them be well and flourish doesn't end. If anything, it grows stronger as our ability to impact it grows weaker. But believing that we can cushion them from all injuries, heartbreaks, illnesses, suffering, or even death is delusional, even when they are in our care.
I was schooled in this truth as soon as my first child was born. They whisked him away to manage complications before I could even say hello. I may have birthed him into the world, but I had minimal control over his life, even when he was in the same room. And yet, I find myself re-learning again and again that the challenge of parenting is not sleepless nights, health scares, growing pains, or teaching teens to drive. Instead, it is learning to trust God more and more each time we watch them walk away.
Knowing that God will be with our kids in all places and at all times brings rest to the spirit. And every goodbye from the time they are born is a chance to practice for the more significant goodbyes. We can demonstrate our trust and find peace in God’s omnipresence by praying for our children daily, believing that He is better equipped to guide them through life and to eternity than we ever were. After all, He desires their flourishing and salvation even more than we do, and He knows better how to bring it about. He knows every hair on their heads, while we only know when they need a haircut. He knows the contents of their hearts, while we see only outward behaviors. He knows how to work circumstances together to draw them to Him, while we want them to avoid hardship. He just knows better.
Before I had kids, I thought that spiritual maturity was marked by growing trust in God with my life. And that is still true. But now, I see that my maturity as a believer is also marked by an ever-deepening dependence on Him to guard the hearts, minds, and lives of the kids I treasure.
Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I am tempted to believe that I am a more reliable parent than God is. It happened again the other day when my middle son dropped me off at the airport after a short visit with him. Watching his car move into the line of Los Angeles airport traffic and disappear around the corner, I suddenly wanted to run after him and take him home to the other side of the country.
Exhaling, I remembered my new place in his life, and the vice grip on my heart eased as I prayed for him, thanking God for being with him in all the places I could not go. My son was off on his next adventure, and it was time for me to go on mine. So, entering the airport, I headed home.
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