1 Friday Favorite: Some Thoughts on Graduation, Delight and Terror, and Letting Go Again

It's time for my Friday link up with A Little Bit of Everything and Momfessionals. 

On Fridays I share things that made me happy from the week - a photo, a song, a quote, a beauty product, a recipe, a pair of cute shoes, etc. If it's a product, sometimes it's something I actually own and sometimes something I just saw online that gave me a smile. Sometimes it's serious and sometimes it's silly. I suppose I believe that God is in the simple details of life and yes, I can even find Him

 in a tube of lipstick.

Hello, Friends. No lipstick today. No recipes. No cute pair of pjs. Just a lot of feelings.

This week I listened to an episode of Kelly Corrigan's podcast in which she said, "As parents of kids of any age we are continually toggling between delight and terror."

Yes ma'am. I think that sums up my weekend with my oldest son, Joe, who graduated from Penn State University on Saturday.

We had a glorious time in State College, Pennsylvania celebrating with Joe, his friends, and their parents. We were able to eat at some of our favorite places and visit some new ones. We were able to meet some of Joe's mentors and tour the amazing radio/tv studio where he spent so much time. There was so much joy. But mostly - more than all of those feelings of happiness, pride, admiration, and awe at how my little boy had grown up to achieve so much - I felt the most calming sense of gratitude. 

It might seem obvious or simple to be grateful that a journey your child took worked out so well. "Gratitude" is almost a buzz word these days. There's not a pastor or life coach or guru-of-the-moment who doesn't recommend a gratitude practice. But for me I was surprised at how often I found myself with a goofy smile on my face, taking a deep breath, and repeating again and again, "Thank you, God. Thank you." 

I can only describe it as a sense of delighted peace - a peace that comes when you realize that trusting God was the right move; that believing that He would be good and present and faithful was the way to do this thing all along. And it wasn't just because Joe found friends and purpose and success in his four years. But also, because God consistently showed up in the challenges - in the homesickness and the freezing cold winters, in the disappointments and missteps. And of course, in the significant losses that come with your good ol' garden variety global pandemic hitting smack in the middle of your college years. 

We simply had the best time.

Delight? Check.

Now, ready to toggle? 

I wonder if there is any mom on the planet that can just sit firmly in the delight. I'm afraid it's just not possible. Because the letting go just doesn't ever end, does it? Before you can even finish that glass of celebratory champagne, you're thrust back into asking for more help, needing to trust again, needing to believe that He's not finished with your kid (or yourself) yet.

Yesterday, I looked back at an Instagram post that I had posted four years ago when we took Joe to college and the photo that my youngest son had captured of the death grip I had on him just before we left.

I had written the beautiful words of my friend Elizabeth Foss: "This life - the one for which we are created - requires that we do the thing we couldn't possibly do if not for knowing that Jesus is there, ready and waiting to give us strength sufficient."

And what I realize as my kids keep getting older is that we have to do that thing we couldn't possibly do again and again and again. That August day in 2017, I held on tight to that little boy thinking that letting go would literally rip out my heart. 

This is what they don't tell you in the hospital. And it seems to be a major oversight, in my opinion. As you're staring into those inky blue eyes and kissing that scrunched up forehead mere minutes after they're born, the nurse does not say, "Hey, Mama. What a beautiful little boy. Oh, by the way, some day you'll leave that perfect human being to sleep on a beer-stained mattress in a unairconditioned dorm room that smells like a rotting ham and cheese sandwich and you'll just have to walk away. And then once you've done that you'll have to do it again when he gets a job some where far away in a state you've never set foot in. And if you have another one of those jokers, you're gonna have to do it with them, too. Like so many times. But anyways, here's that cracked nipple cream you're gonna want to take home with you, sweetie. Have a nice day!" 

You have to let this little thing go. And not just once. And not just physically, but emotionally. Over and over and over. Let go, hurt, trust, heal. Let go, hurt, trust, heal. Let go, hurt, trust, heal. I don't know who came up with this plan, but I'd like to have a word with him or her. It's brutal. 

So if this life for which we are created requires us to keep letting go, then it requires us to keep tapping into the grace of Jesus. To keep knocking on His door over and over and over again until our knuckles are swollen and bloodied. I don't think the letting go will get easier. 

But with all this practice, I think that each time we pull back from that good-bye hug to let them slip away we can glance back over our shoulder and know that Jesus will be there every darn time. And one more time, we can look Him in the eyes and ask "Can we do this again, Lord? Can we trust You again? In the delight and in the terror, will You show up again?'

And the greatest challenge of a mother's life will be to make yet another choice to believe that the answer is "Yes. Every single time you have to let go again. I am the One who will sustain you and your children. Again and again. Yes."