I spent all night last night sleeping restlessly, waking up and crying, falling back to sleep, rinse; wash; repeat. It’s strange, this rise of emotion. I’ve known, like you know your name, that my boy would go back to Africa. It’s just that I’d gotten comfortable telling him “You’re going to go back one day. You watch. You wait. You’ll see.” And now “one day” was here. And I could scarce look it in the face.
I’m not a stranger to setting my charges free. I’ve had six children. Half of them have gone far, far away before. Two of them still are. One just recent came back to live here in the city. That one, my beautiful Hannah Rose, came up soft next to me today. “You okay, mama? Why are you crying?” She asked honest, her face close to mine, her arm wrapped around me. “It’s hard to explain,” I told her. It’s hard to tell anyone else but a mama what the landscape in your heart does as you stand and watch your kid unearth your will to steel yourself and disappear out of your sight. The last thing I could see was Caleb turn and look back and wave, once, twice, three times.
Everyone else turned to leave. I couldn’t move for a minute. I just couldn’t. I felt arms wrap around me. His friends and my kids had gathered around and leaned in. The tears fell. The movie in my mind from little boy to man grown raced through my head. I wanted to yell “I LOVE YOU!” so it would echo all the way to South Africa. Instead, I whispered….Father, go before him, behind him, beside him. Let nothing be in vain.
We don’t know, do we, not really, if we’ll see one another again when any of us says goodbye. So I open my hand wide this time. I’m learning with each goodbye, whether until tomorrow or for a year, that our times are fully in His hands. This life is a transition and nothing will last forever. If I must say goodbye, I will do it bravely.
So tonight, somewhere high in the sky, my boy sits in a plane, miles spreading themselves between us as I type this. He will go from winter to summer in less than 48 hours. I will wait eagerly for that first vlog post, blessing the day of technology that we find ourselves in. I’ve raised him strong and failed him miserably, all at the same time. We walked out of the airport today, my Hannah coming up alongside me. “Well mama, this is what happens when you raise us to be adventurous,” she smiled.
I know, my girl. I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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