Aching Parents

I’ve spent the morning on our back porch ripping out dead geraniums that probably should have been cleaned out of their containers months ago. I couldn’t bring myself to let them go as long as there was some green left.           

Today is our oldest son’s last day at home. Since withdrawing from college a year ago to pursue his acting career, he has lived with us. We knew he would move to New York or Los Angeles as soon as he had things in place. We knew it would be soon. We have looked forward to him securing a management contract and an agency agreement, and now those things are in place – in New York -- and so that’s where he needs to be. We celebrate those accomplishments with him. It appears he may also have some serious interest from a record producer and may be recording his first demo in Italy this winter. We celebrate that opportunity. This is what he has dreamed about since he was a little boy, and it appears to be falling into place – almost miraculously. We celebrate these wonderful gifts.  From the time he was an infant it seemed he was a naturally gifted actor. His grandmother called him “John Barrymore,” because of the faces he made when he wanted something. We celebrate how he is growing into a person who engages his journey as a gentle partner, instead of allowing himself to be managed or “encouraged” into something he is not. We celebrate all this. We celebrate all this. We really do. 

And so why am I sniveling all over my keyboard? I know what other parents tell me: “You think they’ve finally left. But they never do – especially when they need something. They’ll be back. Trust me. They’ll be back.”  “Now you and Bernadette can enjoy one another again as a couple.” I know those things are true. I know it’s time for Daniel to be out in the world. But good God, this hurts. Are the best celebrations ones that include hope and suffering? Is that why the joy of new beginnings require the pain of goodbyes? Is that why death and new life are two parts of the same thing? I don’t know about any of those things now – not in this moment. All I know is I miss him already. 

Oh dear God, be with him; open doors for him and give him the wisdom to make the right choices. Help him to grow and mature beyond his parents – beyond our discoveries – beyond our limited sight. Help us stand in awe of that growth. And, please dear God; dry our eyes that we may see it.