The Best Grief

In twelve days (not that I'm counting), we will put Son1 on a plane to embark on the rest of his life. He will spend nine months in Maine participating in a leadership and service program, where he will concentrate on student ministries. When he returns, I expect he will have a greater understanding of who he is and the impact he wants to make on this world, and then he will begin the college adventure. I am genuinely thrilled for him. It's a good plan, and the right one for him.

For years, I was mystified by the moms who made so much of their children leaving the nest. My own parents didn't seem too flustered by the experience when I left, and I was too young to notice whether they seemed distressed when my brothers left for college. I expected to embrace this right of passage when my own children reached it. Kids should grow up. They should move on (and move out). Of course, it's easy to have these feelings when the reality is years away.

About a year ago I began to realize it wouldn't be so simple. And so this whole year has felt like a countdown to the inevitable: the loss of this boy I adore in the day-to-day life of our family. What I thought I would so easily accept -- my son growing up -- began to feel a lot like grief.

This summer, life has felt more poignant. Sometimes when I've heard Son4, the two-year-old, say good-bye to his oldest brother as he's walking out the door, I've felt like I could burst into tears because a bigger good-bye is coming. I am broken-hearted because this little guy will miss out on living with his oldest brother day in and day out, and because Son1 will miss out on watching his youngest brother change before his eyes. And then there are Sons 2 &3. They love their brother. In many ways, they rely on him. The three of them have been a unit almost as long as the three of them have all been in this world. Because I grew up essentially like an only child, I have found it fascinating to watch the relationships, the dynamics, the interplay among them. They showed me all that I missed. They are like a little tribe, with their own set of memories and jokes, a shared understanding and culture. This isn't just hard for me and the husband. Those boys will miss their brother. Life will not be the same for any of us.

We lived in Chicago when Son1 was born, and I could not take him to the grocery store without at least one woman approaching me and saying, "Enjoy it. It goes so quickly." All Son1 did at that age was scream and cry, so I had no idea what these ladies meant when they said to enjoy it, and I figured the whole thing couldn't go quickly enough. But every trip I made to Dominick's supermarket, another lovely woman said it to me again. Perhaps all of them had a high school senior in the house.

Of course those women in Dominick's were right. It does go quickly, every year faster than the one before it. As I've been staring down my sadness and sense of loss as the big day approaches, I've realized something very important: I will cry when he leaves, but I don't really have anything to cry about. Children can lead us to grief in all kinds of ways. I could have wanted to have children and been unable to. I could have lost a child to an accident or to disease. I could have lost a child to addiction or other destructive behaviors. All of that would mean a heartbreak I can't fathom. Instead, I have a son who will soon turn eighteen and who is starting out on the journey of the rest of his life. My grief is the best grief there is -- my wonderful boy has grown up and he wants to leave.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

The whole concept of respect has been brewing in my mind lately due to the destructive political discourse on Facebook. There is so little respect for others to be found there. People think they have things all figured out: I'm right. You're wrong. You're an idiot for being wrong, and I'm going to show you just what an idiot you are for holding the "wrong" political beliefs.

I get it. I really do. I often think Republicans are idiots. Woops. Did I say that? See, disrespect is easy to slip into, and it doesn't help that sometimes people leave themselves open for potshots: people like the Republican candidate for Senate from Missouri who thinks that pregnancy can't happen in the case of "real rape." Really? Is this the twenty-first century where we have scientific facts at our disposal?

But back to respect. Lately I've been having a lot of discussions with Son2 about politics and life. He's a philosophical fifteen-year-old with lots of questions and thoughts. He enjoys discussing politics, and so that's what we were doing one recent summer morning while I was cleaning up the kitchen. We were discussing the national debt and I was explaining how Republicans like to say they are for "small government." He understood the terminology from watching TV news and from his freshman Civics course. I went on to explain how I find it ironic how Republicans like to wax on about small government while at the same time they want the government to dictate whether or not you can get an abortion or marry your same-sex partner. Now, I'm not trying to get into a discussion or debate about either of those hot topics, but what I am saying is that I wish people would talk straight. Acknowledge that you're only for "small government" in some circumstances. Acknowledge that you actually want the government to dictate (or restrict) some people's life choices. Now I realize the government actually does this all the time. The government has restricted my right to murder you or steal from you. Indeed I have no right to do either, as I shouldn't because that would seriously hurt your rights.

The issue came up again with Son2 a few days later, in a completely different way. We had stopped at Dunkin Donuts and after the boys got back in the car with their goodies, a man approached the car asking for money. I opened the window and gave him a few dollars. Now, it's been a long time since I've given a homeless person money -- partly because I rarely have opportunity to do so since it's far from urban around here. As we drove home, Son2 said, "I don't think you should have given him money. He's probably just going to buy alcohol or drugs with it." I told him I understood where he was coming from, and that I have often bought (or at least offered to buy and been refused) people food when they've asked me for money. Or I've directed them to the nearest place for a free meal. But I explained I wanted to give this guy money, and couldn't I just give him the respect of allowing him to make his own decision about how to spend it? He's homeless. He's probably mentally ill. He has very few choices left to him. Can't I give him three dollars and allow him to decide what to do with it?

My question for myself and for Son2 and for all of us is this: at what point will we acknowledge the right and freedom of others to make decisions for themselves--even when we think those decisions are immoral or simply unwise? Hasn't God actually given all of us humans that freedom? Hasn't he given us the respect of endowing us with our own will -- to decide for ourselves all manner of issues?

As I grow older I feel less and less inclined to try to make choices for others or to tell them what to do. What do I know anyway? I have made good choices and bad ones. But all of my choices have ultimately been good teachers.

Respect. Can't we have a little? Can't I allow you to be a Republican and just tell myself that you hold these beliefs because you believe they really are best for you and for everyone? Can't I respect that? And can't you respect me in that same way when I vote for Obama in November? I will make my choice, and you will make yours. Just please, stop trying to make decisions for me and stop bashing me over the head with your hyped up political rhetoric on a public forum like Facebook.

This has been a public service announcement.

I've been thinking about this blog a lot lately... like a friend I haven't seen in a long while. I can't get it off my mind, and I realize there is a relationship here yet. Two years ago everything within me went silent. Life loomed and threatened, and there was nothing about it that I wanted to say or share...not here anyway. I was absorbed in sheer survival—consumed and desperate. But two years is a long time, and things have become different, in a quiet and good way. Now words are bubbling up again, pressing for a way out. The relief I feel over this is something I can't find words for, but here I am.