A couple weeks ago I walked away from my son’s house, after kissing him goodbye and prayed under my breath that it won’t be the last time I see his bright eyes and lively smile.
Because when you’ve mistakenly waved a cheery “see you later” to your child, ignorant that it’s the LAST time, your heart never takes these moments for granted again.
I drink in the laugh lines around his 30 year old eyes, wondering if mine had laugh lines at that young age as well.
I make a mental record of the timbre of his voice, the set of his shoulders, the way he laughs.
I cannot get enough of him- like a parched woman in the desert-trying to quench a thirst that simply cannot be filled.
He’s off to an adventure and I refuse to squelch his enthusiasm.
I’ve buried one son and part of my heart begs me to set up barricades and safe zones around the rest of my children.
But the truth is, I can’t. There is no way to guarantee safety in this world. And if I try to circumscribe their lives, all I will gain is a false sense of control and a strained relationship.
So I open my hand.
Open my heart.
Take a deep breath.
Pray for grace and mercy.
And let go.