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Pravin Kumar
Age: 61 Zodiac: 
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 Posted: Mon Aug 31, 2009 5:49 am |
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Well, it happened. Our nest just emptied. Now he's gone.
Andrew got off last Tuesday morning, right on schedule. He had all his odds and ends sorted and ready to go, early by a good half hour, neatly packed and loaded into his Saturn. Of course he already had his schedule carefully prepared; he's that kind of person. And it was right there in bold print; he showed me: "Pull out at nine."
He had everything nicely laid out in bullets:
* Lunch in Jacksonville, 1:00.
* Supper in Fayetteville.
* Check into the Fayetteville Best Western right after supper.
* Get to sleep by midnight.
* Get on the road again 9:00 Wednesday morning.
* Get off Interstate 95 at Emporia (Virginia) and take Highway 58 to Virginia Beach.
* Arrive at Aunt Rachel's house in time for supper.
* Play for a couple of days.
* Cross 58 to pick up I-95.
* Richmond, Fredericksburg, the Potomac, Dale City, Woodbridge.
Independence--dutifully organized, precisely penned in neat bullet points. New job, new digs, a new schedule at a new college. A new life. And there he went, out the door. One carefully planned road trip an awfully long way up I-95.
To be honest, I didn't think it would be like this. I didn't think it would be so easy to execute, so cut and dried. I didn't think it would be so darned hard.
And I had been doing really well, too. Until, that is, I leaned into his room Monday evening to say goodnight. This time it stuck in my throat. I realized--suddenly and overwhelmingly--for twenty-one years I'd been saying, "Goodnight, Andrew," to the lump in the bed, often leaning over to kiss his forehead, or touching his shoulder to pray.
Twenty-one years is a very long time. I considered that reality in an unexpected rush of emotion and I broke down.
Don't misunderstand me; this is not a bad thing. My wife Rebekah and I are honestly excited for him. We are happy, pleased that our son has it in him to set up this whole adventure and then to follow through. He'll be taking on new responsibilities, pushing his envelope a little beyond the comfort zone, making his way in the world under his own head of steam.
But he definitely is gone, cruising at seventy-five miles per hour up I-95 even as I write, piloting his small car stuffed with everything he really needs. Everything, that is, except his parents.
But that isn't our job, not anymore. Somewhere, recently, I read: "The simple goal of being a family, of parenting our children, doesn't really look any more complicated than this: Raise them well equipped to leave home and to establish faithful lives that are both fulfilling and self-sufficient."
So we wonder about how well we have done with this twenty-one-year raising thing. All parents do. We wonder about their confidence, we wonder if our children believe in themselves the way that we believe in them. We wonder about their faith, about how well-equipped they are to deal with the realities and hostilities beyond our doors.
And we wonder about ourselves, about how our own hearts are bound so deeply and tenderly into the substance of these wonderful young people whom we have released into the world.
There are words for days like this, words not only for our children, but for us, too. They are words we can all hold onto; they are the words I have for Andrew. "The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."
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