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.