Leaving a child at college is never easy, especially the moment you have to turn and walk away.
I see you there waving, up there in the dorm window, up there where we left you with your tons of stuff that will not be enough, with your roommate and new friends who will not know how to hear your heart.
How can I leave you? There is so much I want to say. "Bye, dad," you said with that usual peck on my cheek. "Bye, hon," I said. And the rest of the words stuck in my throat. "I love you," I whispered. Was that enough? Will you know how much you are loved? How much it breaks my heart to drive away? Will you know?
I should have told you then. Then when you looked up to me and waited at the window for me, then when you pulled at my pants leg and reached out for my hand. I should have told you how cherished you are, how perfect a gift, a treasure beyond measure. I should have told you...
But I was in a hurry during those younger years, busy finding my way and reaching for dreams I could not fulfill.
I know that too often I brushed you aside for newspapers and meetings, for demands I imagined or made for myself. I loved you then, I love you still -- more than my hidden heart will let me say, more than my stumbling tongue can shape into sounds that you can hear.
I am proud of what you've become, so quick of mind and spirit, so loving and full of grace, so ready with a smile and eager to help.
If I could, I would still sit on the floor and play dolls with you, or walk the fields in the evening to see the sun set one more time, or stop on the shore to skip stones on the sparkling water, or catch your sleepy head on my shoulder as we read another same-old book. Your life filled mine. Your panics defined my time. Your calls and non-calls made my feet and my heart run faster... Your laughter made even Mondays memorable. And now, when you are gone, how will my arms form that remembered cradle?
I have no gift to give you, no treasure to make your future secure. I have no word that will banish all fear, no promise that will ease your cares.
I ask God to give you grace to live unafraid. To keep you safe as you go beyond the limits of my anxious love. To give you strength to stand tall when others would bring you down. To have the confidence that comes from knowing that you are a treasured child. I surrender you to God's care. And I pray that in the cold night, when I can no longer hear you cry out in your sleep, the Spirit will enfold you in God's healing presence, with God's unfailing love.
If I could, I would shout out to you from right here in the parking lot to you up there in the fourth-floor window of your future: I will always love you -- from now through eternity. I will always love you with a love that is more than myself, a love that is greater because you have shown me how to give it away.
My daughter, remember, now and forever, you are my cherished child, my gift, my friend.
Written by The Rev. Ted Schroeder. Published in the Thrivent Magazine, July/August 2002. Used with permission.
It was our fault for starting a college fund for him. For making him say please and thank you and eat his vegetables and do his homework. So he could grow up polite and healthy and smart and go off to college this fall halfway across the country.
When we talk on the phone, I tease him about the progress I'm making turning his bedroom into the bird sanctuary I've always wanted.
"I have to get back to nailing up more perches," I tell him.
In truth, when we shoveled out his room, it left a big hole in the house.
Not that I planned to spend the rest of my days digging dirty socks out from under his bed and my nights listening for the familiar blare of Grateful Dead tunes from his car stereo as he pulled in the driveway long after curfew.
But I worry I might have forgotten something important during the marathon rounds of advice I gave him - essential advice about not carrying cash and choosing loyal friends and not reading in low light and getting eight to 10 hours of sleep in a well-ventilated room and washing colors in cold water and not walking alone on campus after dark and cooking red meat all the way through.
What if he has a problem none of the 40,000 students on campus can help him solve and he needs to call me? And then what if he can't find his cell phone? Or he forgets to plug it in and the battery is dead?
This idea of "gone for good" is an oxymoron. Who's good? I can't stop cooking too much food for dinner. The dog has been moping for days. His friends have lost access to our refrigerator and they are probably starving to death.
Did I mention I was expecting him to call any minute now?
Someone once told me you succeed as a parent when your children no longer need you to be one. That's a comforting thought, I suppose, in some twisted way.
This morning, I noticed the dog has had enough sense to stop waiting by the window for him. I will, too, probably... eventually. For now, I miss him.
So I've penned this poem for him and for my other grown-and-gone children and for any other kids who have left home this fall to follow their own stars and dreams:
You guys are grown up now
and it might as well be known
that there's trouble afoot
and there are problems at home.
The place doesn't feel right.
I'm watching and listening
and looking all over
for things that are missing
The house is dead quiet
the phone isn't ringing
the radio's off
and no one
is singing.
There's no change in the dryer
no shoes in the kitchen
no socks in the bathroom
and no one is bickerin'
'bout who left the milk out
or which car's parked where.
There's calm, peace and quiet
and tons of despair
Because houses are meant
to be messy and loud
and parents are meant
to hug kids and be proud.
I know growing up's good
and there are mountains to climb
but if you ever slow down
and you've got the time
I wish you'd stop back
with the noise and the mess
'cause that makes the house
how I like it best.
Written by Kim Diloreto. Published in The Post-Crescent, September 19, 2004. Used with permission.