Light shone down from a cyan sky as we parked the car in the college admissions lot. It was a beautiful day. Seventy degrees. Sunny. February in Texas is like that. It can be the best of times, and it can be the worst of times. Thankfully, today was the former.
Ochre rays warmed our skin as we walked toward the building. We entered through the double doors. Introduced ourselves. Waited until we were ushered into a meeting. He was all smiles. Confident yet humble. He gave a firm handshake. He spoke with a mixture of assurance and nerves.
I sat beside him, ancillary to the conversation, listening, observing. When did my little one, who used to delight in dump trucks and mud puddles, grow into this? When did the child obsessed with a certain tank engine mature into the young man now beside me speaking of his hopes for the future? When did my little boy become a young man with only a year and a few months left at home?
He smiles as they talk of the business school and student life. He asks about faith on campus. Forty minutes later, we’re back in the car. He’s excited. I am too. But I’m also a little bit sick.
There’s a pit in my stomach. The realization that next year will be a long process of letting go and a bittersweet season of lasts. The last first day of school. The last practice. The last high school game. Those are the big ones, but there are benign ones too. The last turkey sandwich packed into a lunch box, cheddar, no mayo. The last socks picked up off his floor. The last backpack casually dropped beside the kitchen counter.
He comes down the stairs wearing the shirt they gave him emblazoned with three letters. It’s slightly big. He makes a joke with his sisters. Flashes that dimpled smile. And for just a moment, he’s six again. Where did it go? All that time that once stretched before me? Now there’s just one year and a few months before it all changes. Before the life we’ve always known suddenly shifts.
There are so many glorious firsts ahead. I know that much. There will be so much joy and so much welcome in this new season. I don’t mourn the future. I know the Lord has good works planned for my son, and I know His plans are good. But I do mourn the realization that those plans will be unfolding away from our home. I mourn that there will be an empty seat at our table and an empty room in our house.
But I remind myself that he’s a junior, that we’ve yet to cross the threshold into the year of letting go. So I’ll wash his jersey. I’ll tuck it into his drawer simply for the privilege of having a jersey to tuck. And I’ll whisper a prayer. Fierce words begging God’s protection and His provision and His goodness poured out over my son. Because one day that laundry will pile up on a dorm room floor, and I won’t be there. One day I’ll hug his neck as we stand atop a university sidewalk. One day I’ll wave goodbye and embark on that interminable drive home without that kid in the back seat. Until then, I’m holding on just a little bit tighter.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
by Colin Morris 
by Savannah Lyon 
