This past Thursday
we left our third child at college. This is an activity in which we have become
quite proficient over the past five years.
It usually
goes something like this: We arise early on a Thursday morning, load up at
least two vehicles, and caravan south to Bolivar, Missouri. When we arrive in Bolivar, we find a dorm room and make several trips up
flights of stairs while carrying food and other college necessities. We meet a Residence
Assistant, then hook up a television set or maybe a refrigerator. And, there is always a bookcase to assemble. Always a bookcase….
Inevitably
there will be at least one trip—maybe two or more—to Wal-Mart. After the Wal-Mart run(s), we return to
campus to listen to a well thought out presentation from the University
Administration. They always tell us that
our children, and we, will be okay.
After the
presentation we meet back up with our child. We’re given about an hour to take
pictures and to say goodbye. It’s an hour that at the same time we wish would
never end and would have ended long ago.
As the hour
concludes we form a circle, pray, and say goodbye. The kids all go to their
assigned groups while all of the parents and siblings and other friends and
relatives flank a large sidewalk which leads to an auditorium. At the appointed time, a bagpipe-serenaded
procession begins and we wave to all of the freshman as they walk away to the rest
of their lives.
Each time
we’ve done this, after our freshman has disappeared into the auditorium, we
sort of awkwardly walk back to our car and carry our remaining family north on
Missouri Route 13. We typically grab some sort of supper, occupy ourselves with
small-talk, and drive on—mostly in silence.
Although
there are many similarities, each return trip is a bit different, as there is
always one less child coming back with us. With the last two trips I’ve realized that it
is not a new wound that has been opened, but an old wound that has reappeared
like some dormant virus. With each successive trip we return home and set about
redefining ourselves in a new and different and ever evolving context.
My post-trip
routine back home always begins with me climbing atop a mower. I’ve learned it is atop this perch that any
effective grieving or pondering or reflecting is best accomplished. Last
Thursday was no different. I jumped up
on the John Deere Z-Track and throttled up to mow the ditch along our road.
This activity was not only necessary as a catharsis, but it was also a
pragmatic action because except for me, all remaining members of my three man
mowing crew now reside in Bolivar, Missouri. And Labor Day weekend is a long way off.
Alone with a
thousand different thoughts and regrets, I blankly stared ahead as the Briggs
and Stratton hummed behind me. Instead of seeing the ditch and the grass and
the beauty of the day, my mind flashed image after image of ball games and
fishing rods and American Girl dolls and BB guns and supper tables interwoven
among five vaporous childhoods.
I was
eventually brought back to a time when the children were younger and I had told
them of my desire for them to love each other and that they always be best
friends. I had told them, Lord willing, they would be so long after their
mother and I were gone.
I had said
this sort of thing maybe 2-3 times during moments I’d fancied as flashes of parental
brilliance. It’s not that I didn’t own these thoughts, but I probably had thought
such talk sounded more profound than anything. Or I may have even been saying
it to manipulate good behavior or simply trying to acquire some peace in the
house so I could watch a ball game.
But as I
threw up dust and grass from the ditch along Route T, I realized that my
forgotten parental wish had indeed come true. Scattered among the business and
sadness of the day Thursday were countless demonstrations of sibling bonds that
had emerged not because of me, but more likely in spite of me.
This third
child—Timothy—first received a Facebook message Thursday from his oldest sister
Olivia. Olivia was in Florida and unable to see Timothy traverse the same landscape
which she had first conquered five years earlier. She offered her dismay that a
little cooing baby could turn into a bellowing giant—her giant—in such a short period of time. It made me think back to the almost nightly
knock Timothy would deliver at Olivia’s bedroom door, followed by, in a little
boy’s voice: “Goodnight Olivia, I love you.”
Timothy’s
younger sisters—Phoebe and Annika—joined in later via Instagram. They each
enumerated the many things they would
miss about him. Phoebe talked about the high school sporting events, the late
night talks about books or television shows, and the many runs for fast food—Taco
Bell mostly, but Arby’s if Phoebe was lucky…. Her Instagram pierced my heart—a collage of
three pictures of the two of them hugging. Two from when they were very little,
the other from real time—right before we left campus.
Annika share
similar stories about her older brother. He had taken her often to Chipotle
rather than his favorite—Taco Bell. Six years her senior, Timothy had truly become
Annika’s big brother, not just a brother who was older, over the past few months.
Despite the
sweetness from his sisters, perhaps the ultimate in sibling love was
demonstrated by Timothy’s older brother Davis, who has already tapped him to
play for his SBU intramural football team. Davis, as a senior and the one who
knows everyone at SBU, Thursday was busily introducing Timothy to anyone he
knew that had not yet met him. These boys will have an entire year together on
campus. Now as men, I know it will be more special than any year they shared
together in our home as boys.
So God
comforted me atop that Z-Track Thursday. He gave me this glimpse of His grace through
my children’s love for each other. He blessed me with the fulfillment and
realization of a forgotten desire. A desire expressed, perhaps even
half-heartedly, during the doldrums of child rearing. A hope expressed during a time when we often
wondered if anything we did or said would ever matter.
Grace is like
that. It appears and emerges and arrives when we least expect it. In God’s storehouses it lays waiting, emerging
in His perfect timing.
It rained
down on me last Thursday, atop a green zero turn lawnmower, at the precise moment
in time that I needed it most.
