The last few weeks have been quite busy at our house.
My two youngest turned sixteen and are driving (with a permit). Johnny was asked to escort a pretty young classmate to the Navy Ball for NJROTC, and John took him to buy a new suit since he’s grown so much over the last year. Dara signed up to go to Guatemala with a group this summer all by herself—no one else she knows is going.
My senior went to the prom, decided on a college (finally) and will be graduating in a few weeks, leaving us with only two at home.
I’m not one of those who weeps over “my babies” leaving home. That’s what’s supposed to happen. Maybe because it took so many years, tears, and prayers to get them that I promised God I would let them go anywhere, even far from home, if He would just let me have them for a while.
Still, it’s hard when maybe they don’t make exactly the choices you want them to.
It’s hard to really, completely let go and let God take care of them, let them fall and get back up (or not), let them suffer and be in pain, let them stand at the crossroads and struggle over which road to take—and keep your mouth shut when the right answer is so clearly obvious. At least to me.
But when they finally do pick a road, I can rejoice with them that they made that decision on their own, and I can rest a little easier knowing they are a little wiser, more capable.