Dear Grayson,
I’m down at the beach and have a little time away from everything, and of course my thoughts are turning to you as you prepare to leave, and as we prepare for your departure. I have so many emotions surrounding it, I’m not sure I can sort them all out. But I’m going to give it a stab.
Mothers love their children in different ways, and appreciate various things about each one. So while I love all four of my children beyond telling, I love each particularly, in his or her own special way. It is like each child occupies a particular place in my heart, even while they all share my whole heart. I could say to each one, “You are the child of my heart” and it would be true. And yet, I can say to you, in your own way, “YOU are the child of my heart, Grayson.” In the day-in, day-out business of life, I don’t sit you down and tell you that. Our lives, with their dance of crossing paths, aren’t always conducive to sharing our hearts. But hardly a day goes by that I don’t look at the young man you’re becoming and think that very thought, “You are the child of my heart.”
When all your accidents have happened -- the train near-miss, the car hitting you, the skateboard accident, the car rolling on the interstate, and more than a few other less dramatic incidents -- I’ve been slapped in the face with my love for you. That particular place in my heart that only you occupy has risen up and cried for expression, out of fear for your safety, out of desperate hope, out of boundless affection. It’s that same place in my heart that has been stirring in these last few weeks as I think about letting you go to the other side of the world. All those raw emotions have been bubbling around my heart: fear for your safety, pride in your competence in taking on such an adventure, hope for your future, affection that knows how hard on me it will be when you’re gone, anticipation (and occasional apprehension) of what you’ll encounter, a hint of regret that I haven’t been a good enough mother to you, or that I’ve wasted opportunities with you that I’ll never recover. Your imminent departure has brought to the forefront the recognition that you. are. grown up. Your childhood is quickly receding; maybe it receded long ago and I am just now coming to grips with it. But there’s nothing like sending your child across the globe to remind you that a new phase is beginning! And so my heart, full of love for you, squirms a bit as it recognizes a new phase of relationship.
You have always had a way of reaching out and touching me. As a little boy, I couldn’t look at you without feeling such a sweet affection for you. You had so much energy and activity and creativity, and yet you were sweet and trusting and vulnerable. I don’t think I realized until it was almost too late the cracks in your relationship with your dad. I wish in retrospect that I had acted sooner, that I had confronted him with more strength, or that I had protected you with more tenderness. But I felt at the time at a loss to know what to do to make it all better. I knew he loved you dearly, and yet I watched as the misunderstandings and disappointments hardened into rifts. I can honestly say I did the best I could at the time, but I’ll always wish I could have done more. Thankfully, especially in the past two years or so, your dad has found healing for some of the evils that were done against him from his childhood, and he’s becoming the father I always had faith he could become. He loves you more than he’ll ever be able to adequately express to you. I hope you’ll be able to forgive us both for the hurts incurred in past years, for the failures, for the ways we brought sadness to into your sweet soul.
Everything in these past eighteen years has gone into who you are now. You delight me in so many ways. For all your bluster and swagger, you have such a tender heart. Remember that time when Sarah’s parents were fighting, and she called you? We drove over there and got her out of the house. That was one of those times that I stood back in amazement at you. You wanted so much to protect her and help her, and I’ve always admired that combination of strength and tenderness you have. I also love how charitable you are toward others: I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say an unkind thing about anyone, ever; no snide remarks, no cutting comments. (Well, maybe Ms. Howard the math teacher, but I didn’t much like her either!) I am going to miss your presence around the house, especially when I think of those great qualities, and your beautiful smile, and the handsome lines of your face.
As you go out in the world, quite literally, I hope you’ll go with God. I feel reticent to say much in that regard, for fear of putting you off -- after all, not too many eighteen year olds want to hear their moms start talking religion, just as they are departing to start their own adult lives! I know my spiritual journey has been somewhat foreign to you, and I’m not sure what you’ve made of it. As I’ve experienced God for myself, I’ve not wanted to force anything down your throat, so perhaps I’ve erred on the side of leaving that topic out of discussion with you. But you were given to God in baptism, and I have faith that he will be with you all the way. I imagine in your brushes with death you’ve had opportunity to ponder God’s presence in your life...I know I have. I wish for you, and pray for you, that you’ll find God to be a real presence in your life, not just some theological concept, or some ancient relic, or worse yet, an irrelevancy. We miss God daily; he is there in all our moments, but rarely do we recognize him in them (often until some big event or tragedy). I have every faith that you’ll learn to recognize God more and more, and you’ll increasingly orient your life toward him. I expect there will be ups and downs, but I’m confident of the basic trajectory.
Enjoy your time in Australia! Take pictures, at least in your mind. Remember or write down stories of things that happen so you can tell me all about it. Be curious and learn new things. Explore places I’ve only seen pictures of. (It is so weird to know that so much will happen to you in the coming months that I have no part in. I guess that’s just like any child going away to college or whatever...it seems stranger somehow, since it is a whole world away!) I don’t want to diminish any of my optimistic advice by saying: Be careful! My apprehensions for your safety are many! I’m trying not to dwell on them, but they are there, urging me to strap a helmet on you. For life. Please dear Grayson, I couldn’t bear something happening to you so far away. Life is so fragile, and yours is so inexpressibly precious to me. Protect it.
Please keep in touch with us. Let us know you arrive safely, both by phone and by e-mail if possible, and keep us informed about your whereabouts. Maybe I’ll figure out how to do instant messenger (if you get an internet connection), or you can always post on Mackenzie’s facebook and I’ll see it. Keep ID on you all the time; the world is a bit crazy with terrorists and tsunamis, you know. That’s all the maternal advice I can stand, and probably more than you wanted!
Just know that I love you. You’ll probably have to be a parent yourself before you can understand just how much; maybe down the road when you’re holding your own little child, you’ll remember what I’m saying to you now about this sea of emotions, and you’ll realize, “Ah, this is what mom meant!”
