Let them go, let them fly
They did not come with a warning, those four infants of mine. “Heads up, lady! This is nothing. The pain of birthing something the size of a Volkswagen is child’s play compared to what you’re gonna feel when it’s time for them to leave.”
Nope. No one ever mentioned that. Now, 35 years into this parenting journey, I know the truth of composer Stephen Schwartz’s words, that, “The hardest part of love is letting go.”
It started with college. When the first son moved to campus, we were a mess. The nightly ritual of locking the back door was a constant reminder. For the first time, there would be no black Toyota rolling in to park underneath the basketball hoop. His spot on the cement slab by the garage was empty, and we felt its absence keenly.
When the second son left home to travel the world on an 11-month, 11-country mission trip, we were thrilled for him. A giant map went up on the dining room wall, and we traced the team’s movements globally with colored yarn and push pins. Country by country, we followed them.
Meanwhile, we missed him terribly. His loud and cheerful singing. The banging of the back door, announcing his comings and goings. His rapier-sharp wit. His adrenaline-fueled presence. All of it left a giant hole.
Then the third son left for college. He, too, left a giant hole. We missed his quiet, steady presence. At every opportunity, we visited him at the college of his dreams and relished every weekend that he came home.
One and then another would return, boomeranging back into the nest before launching back out into the great, wide world. “Why don’t you just put a revolving door on the back of the house?” I would say to my stalwart husband. He would grimace, looking pale, as the door whooshed and whooshed again.
Recently, it happened again–a trip to the airport, tearful goodbyes, kisses on the cheek, and hugs about the neck. The house is quieter, emptier, and bereft of a loving, beautiful soul. Knowing where he is and what he’s doing makes us happy, and yet we feel his absence keenly. In one hand, we hold celebration for his advancement and in the other, we hold grief. This is the especial cross that parents bear, the tension of raising and releasing our children, of holding on and letting go.
If anything can make a human being feel vulnerable, it is having a child. When the boys were in elementary school, this mother would send along a handwritten letter on the first day of school that went something like this. “Dear teacher, every day my heart walks into your classroom in a pair of blue jeans, blue eyes, and a fine set of rooster tails. Please be kind.”
Parents know that the world can be cruel and cold. Parents know that life can knock you down and send you winding, and everything within us longs to protect our children from danger, disappointment, and distress. This is a normal, natural desire.
The harm comes in, though, when fear drives us to unhealthy control. We fear rejection on the playground and in the classroom. We fear their physical harm. We fear their failure. We fear the poor choices they might make, and so we reach for control.
The line here is exceptionally fine, and wisdom is essential. There is a season for discipline and boundaries. There is a time to let them learn through natural consequences. Protect them from all consequences of their choices when they’re young, and you will raise weak, ineffective adults who will suffer far worse through the consequences that life will inevitably bring. Make them wait to learn these lessons, and you’ll ensure that the lessons will be harder.
Insist on keeping them close to you so as to manage all risk, and you will clip their wings. Your “love” can become a gilded cage that prevents the eaglets from flying. Safe, perhaps, but again, weak, ineffective, and forever on the ground, never to reach the heights. How sad.
We want our children to fly. We want them to go and do, to be and see, to try and even to fail. Haven’t our own failures been some of our greatest teachers? I know that mine have been. So, as loving parents, we should not bind and gag this most valuable instructor. Let’s allow our children to learn from their mistakes.
In my considerable experience with fear and control, I’ve learned that when I overreach, it hinders my relationships. No one likes to be suffocated, and that is what excessive control does. It is the hands about the neck of the person we’re controlling. The instinctive reaction is to stiff arm and escape those grasping hands. Create distance in the relationship like this, and you will sacrifice your “pearl of great price,” your influence.
How can parents let go and still remain at peace? Well, when my son was far away over the bounding sea, I learned that God could be everywhere that this mother could not. I was able to sleep at night because I knew whose hands were carrying him. Meanwhile, I continued practicing letting go of fear and control. I kept working on our relationships and polishing that priceless pearl—my influence.
What joy it is to see your children moving confidently about in the world. What happiness when they return to your home and your love. What a gift to see them use those strong, strong wings, flying high and true.