Letting Go Of Our First-Born

 

Our oldest child has flown the nest. 

It's only been a day, and I'm sure in the days and weeks to follow, I will have more thoughts and feelings, but for now, I just have a few.

It's a strange phenomenon when you spend 18-20 short years angsting about raising your child well, and then all of the sudden, the time has come to set her free. Did I do everything right? No. Did I give her enough attention? Probably not. Did I love her enough? How do I answer this one? I remember writing in a journal to her when I was pregnant, wondering how I would ever be able to love her as much as she deserves. I am selfish, and imperfect, and fall so short of even being worthy to. I did spend the last almost-20 years of her existence trying to love her, and I know that the Lord has graciously filled in the many gaps where I've failed. She has grown into a very beautiful young lady, with a heart for our Lord, and she has reached adulthood, ready to go out into the world, but determined not to be of it. 

At her new place, I asked if I could make her bed. She obliged her old sentimental mother this task, which seemed so trivial to her, I'm sure. But to me, it meant the world. Together, her dad and I made up her new bed, each of us lost in our thoughts of how we got here because she was 4 years old just yesterday. We glanced at each other a few times, knowingly. Our daughter, the one who changed our life and set it on a trajectory toward much greater things than we ever could have imagined, is now no longer under our wings. 

This is the part of life where you really learn the art of letting go in a much more painful way than you did when she went off to Preschool. Or when she got her driver's license. Or when she got her first job out in the world. The letting go must allow for an ocean's-worth of trust in God, the depths of which you should never discover. She is His, after all. He has a plan for her life that we know nothing about. We can only pray she will be who God meant her to be.

When we made it back home yesterday, we pulled sheets and blankets from the dryer and once again, together, we made up her bed. A sense of finality seemed to sneak upon us; the closing of a chapter. We surveyed her empty room. Hangers dangled, purposeless, in the closet, where many beautiful and feminine clothes used to hang. Her time-worn dresser sat empty, as did her nightstand where she used to keep holy cards and an occasional glass of water. Her painting of La Vierge aux anges (The Virgin with Angels, or Song of Angels) which used to adorn her wall, is now at her new place. Almost everything was bare.

But my heart was full. Yes, there's an ache. But this is the start of a new, exciting chapter. My sweet, anxious daughter whom I've worried and fretted over for many years, has now proven to me that once again, God is faithful. He is the Master of turning even the things which pain and prick, into good and beautiful things. He has her under His wings, as He always has, and I know she will be okay, no matter what. I'm excited to see what He's written for her.

And I realize that my responsibility as her parent has changed some, but has not completely diminished. I'm still immersed in this longest labor. I'm still here to worry over her, to pray for her, to guide her on a moral path. 

And she knows that no matter what happens, she can always come back home.