Letting Go

by | Aug 30, 2018 | Uncategorized


I’ve had a long month. It started when I moved my daughter into her studio apartment, where she starts her first grown-up job soon. It finished with me driving several hours across the state to drop off my son at college. The return trip home seemed much quieter and much longer.


 Kim and I are officially empty-nesters, and our kids are “on their own”.

 One of these now adults is a loving, nurturing soul who is attentive to the smallest details of the people in her life. She hops from one interest to the next, soaking up new experiences. She celebrates the quirks that make each person unique.

 The other is easy-going. He works hard, but he and life have achieved harmony in a happy kind of dance. He can find and reflect humor in any situation. He is at his best in small crowds, with friends who laugh together and stand up for each other. 


I am proud of both of them, and there is no reason for me to worry. They have much to learn but are ready to face what lies ahead. God smiles at them, and they smile back. They’ll be fine.

 While their worlds are expanding, mine has suddenly contracted. I have no “little buddy” to ride with me to the grocery. Even if I went alone, who am I cooking breakfast for anyway? I catch myself starting tasks that are no longer necessary.

 There is nobody left to teach how to change a flat tire, light a grill without burning your eyebrows, or iron a shirt like a pro. Now I await phone calls asking for advice.

 I’ve spent most of my adult life building a home for my family. The smallest details have been carefully organized to prepare the kids to fly out of the nest one day. Now that the day has come, I wonder how it got here so quickly.

 I am suddenly left to walk through a house that seems much larger and lonelier than before. Many rooms now sit unused except by the memories that live in them.

In one bedroom, a memory sits behind a tightly closed door and sings softly while strumming a guitar. The music provides relief from the angst of teen years. I like to close my eyes and listen silently from the hallway.

In the next bedroom, another memory is playing one vinyl LP record after another in a world that went digital decades ago. Albums are strewn across the bed while their collector admires each and carefully reorganizes them. I see so much of her mother’s beauty in her.

 The family room holds the echoes of a father and son intently watching superhero cartoons that they’ve seen many times before. They occasionally interrupt the show to discuss which superpower they would choose, and who is the greatest hero. Could that little boy imagine the man he would become?

 The small table in the kitchen holds the memory of a mother and daughter surrounded by scattered crayons while they carefully color pictures of animals and flowers. I tell them that their pictures are beautiful, but the memories don’t seem to notice.

 The dining table hosts a noisy feast. “Everybody talking and nobody listening” is the family motto. Comfort foods fill every empty space but are seldom chewed thoroughly in the wild race for seconds. I think we took a picture that day. I wonder where it is?  

 Some rooms have silent occupants. I sigh at the piles of dirty dishes that reappear on the kitchen counter overnight. I shake the empty milk carton that found its way back into the refrigerator door. I remember wondering how they would ever get along without me.

More memories are living in the garage and backyard, but I’ve seen enough. There’s no hurry to visit the others now. I have lots of time, and they’ll still be there.

 My celebration of a new life with a wife I love will need to wait for a short while. Oh, I’m excited about it. We have plans for grand adventures. But not just yet.

 For the moment, I will quietly mourn the passing of my days as a full-time father and wait for the separation pains to subside. I need to let go of my previous identity and discover who I am now.

 I know that all of us will be together again. More memories will move in one holiday weekend soon. We love each other, and that hasn’t changed. But the seismic shift is impossible to overlook.

 Today, I will sit quietly with the memories who share my home. I need their company and comfort.

 Maybe I’ll watch that cartoon with those two guys. It’s one of my favorites.

Breaking Free

by | Aug 16, 2018 | Uncategorized

Do you ever feel like you are stuck in the same bad dream?

It’s a dream where the family you grew up with treats you like an outcast. People you thought were your friends abandon you because your life is a mess. Your boss finds fault in everything you do. The constant rejection is suffocating.

When you enter a room, the faces looking at you morph into the faces of people who have condemned you. The impatient checkout clerk has the same disappointed expression your parent had. The new neighbors next door roll their eyes when you talk, and you know they have already given up on you, just like your friends did. Your kids criticize everything you do for them, and nothing is good enough, just like your boss.

On some level, you agree with all of them. You have made mistakes. Too often, your best wasn’t good enough. Your failures are now on display in your kids’ lives. The shame is overwhelming.

You’ve tried to find friends or groups to help, but they haven’t. You’ve read the Bible until you can recite the words, but healing hasn’t come. You’ve prayed for God to take away the pain, but it continues.

As crowds close in around you, pointing out your inadequacies, you feel less than an adult. The helpless child inside begins to cry.

Tears cloud your vision, and you begin to run, pushing past people, going in any direction that will provide an escape. When it seems impossible to break free, you see Jesus seated in front of you. He looks at you and says “Come, little one. Have a seat”.

As you walk toward him, you can hear the crowd saying “Jesus, there is much to be done, don’t waste your time here.”

He dismisses them with a gesture and invites you again to sit with him. When you do, he gently wipes the tears from your face and brushes back your hair.

“It’s not fair!” you shout.

“I know”.

He holds you patiently as you sob, gently comforting you. Unexpectedly, he begins to talk about a flower growing nearby. He reminds you that it is your favorite color.

For the first time, you look up to see what he is pointing to. Without trying, you smile and make a crack in the sadness. He’s right of course. It is your favorite.

Time slips by as you sit with him. He doesn’t tell parables or teach you lessons. There are no stories to reflect on later, examining their meaning. Instead, he patiently enjoys your time together, drawing joy from each smile you share, delighting in the little things you say and do.

Before long, tears of laughter replace the sorrowful ones he wiped away earlier. You tell him which parts of his creation you find to be the most beautiful, and he points out that same beauty inside you.

Suddenly remembering the surrounding crowds, you quietly say “Can you make them be nice to me?”

“Know that I love you, little one.”

It is not enough to know every verse in the Bible. Even believing that he died for you will not bring you peace. It is his love that will set you free. Until you embrace it, you live in a prison with the door left open.

Spend all the time you need in his arms. Step away a few paces to show him the amazing tricks you have learned. Feel free to step away further. It’s OK. He’s still there.

The recurring nightmare will end. The voices from your past will fade into the mist. Your accusers will be silenced as you focus on how much he loves you.

The power to change the world is inside you. It doesn’t come from your intellect, strength or any other gift you were given. Certainly, those things are of great value. Each was carefully designed and crafted only for you as he created your soul. Those things are part of who you are, but his love is the engine that makes everything run.

Step fearlessly into each moment when you hear his call. Extravagantly share his love with others. Your destiny has always been in front of you. A dying world needs you.

At times, there will still be pain. Voices will ring out that you are not enough. You will occasionally look to Jesus in doubt, asking if everything will be OK. You will always hear his words.

“Know that I love you, little one.”