Reflections of the changes in life.

Of course, I knew it was going to happen. It happens every year. But I'm never really fully ready when it does.

Oh, I saw it coming. I noted the signs that it was on its way. But now the reality of it strikes; I'm overcome by it.

I used to privately scoff at people who reacted this way. After all, it's a part of life. Deal with it. And deal with it I will. But it doesn't make it anymore pleasant. It just shows me again how my own judgments about other people have come back to haunt me.

So what is "it"? My baby has left to return to college. Okay, "baby" isn't a very good word. He's 4 days short of 20 years old. He's 6'4" tall with a deep, masculine voice and a bright future, a 4.0 GPA taking honors courses at a private college, a girlfriend, and a great handle on the responsibilities and privileges of adult life. He's skilled at money management, time management, and personal relationships. My "baby" is well on his way to independence.

Yet the last weekend of August is always a dreaded time for me. He leaves and drives 8 hours to go to school, to live independently and separately. To lead his own life. I should be exuberant in all his success. I should bask in his achievements. And I am and do. But inside, I am torn -- ripped apart. The child who learned to walk, talk, and think within my care, the young man with whom I've shared so much in these years is rounding the corner from "my baby" to adult son, from one who needs me to one who choses when and how to relate to me. I'm not dealing well with this change -- maybe because it's more profound than the progression of changes that led up to this.

When he stepped onto a school bus for his first day of school, I was excited for him. He would experience learning in a new setting, with new people; he would make friends and his world would expand. He came home and shared his stories, his frustrations, his joys over a snack or the evening meal. When he learned to drive, I was relieved. I no longer would be a taxi driver and he could find some independence and experience a larger slice of the world. But he always told us where he was going and when he'd be back, and then he came home, ate dinner at the family table, and shared his excursions. When he stepped on a plane for a tour of Great Britain I was envious of him. He would see places I've dreamed of seeing. His world expanded beyond my own, but he would still be coming home. And he still called it home. He shared his stories, his photos, and his dreams to go to see the world.

The first year of college, he and I drove to the school in separate cars. He needed my help to find the place, and the space in my car for his belongings. As I left him in the dorm that evening -- my birthday and days from his 18th birthday -- the tears fell: mine and his. I sensed his unfamiliarity with the place, the people, the situation. I cried for him. And for myself. For the first time, the ties that had held us together for 18 years were being dissolved -- the dinner table, the long walks, the conversations. His world separated from mine. His life is his own. Tears fell over the separation and this difficult transition.

And now, two years and two August weekend separations later, those tears fall again. The void, the reality, and success of this cutting of the proverbial umbilical cord mingle in the salty flow from my eyes.

I treasure his companionship, our conversations over breakfast and dinner, our shopping excursions at Goodwill. I revel in his stories of learning to do a new thing, of achieving success with his coworkers, of finding his way to a new spot in town. I enjoy his company when we're reading the newspaper in the evenings, our long walks in the neighborhood after dark. And his humor, dry and sharp, lightens even my heaviest days. I do miss him when he leaves for school every year on the weekend of his and my birthdays, one set of milestones marking yet another.

Today his room is void of all thing things that make it "Andrew's room." The floor is empty. The closet door and desk drawers closed. Missing are the clothes in the laundry basket and the contents of his desk. Gone are the keys to his car. Gone is the young man I'm proud to call my son and my friend. Today the void is not just in that room. It is also in my own heart.

Maybe I'm just feeling my age. Maybe my changing hormonal balance affects me this way. Maybe it's the humidity or the phase of the moon. Whatever. The bottom line is still that I'll deal with it. His independence is the evidence of our parental success. His burgeoning self-reliance and autonomy are the desired outcome of procreation. My struggle to transition will be won with time. My tears will flow into rivers of joy. Someday. But for today, I think I'll just swim in them. A late August swim.

Spiritual Inventory; Spiritual Garage Sale.
Our garage is filled with the tangible evidence of our living. There are children's desks and bookcases, a wok, computer software, my huge roll top desk, the freezer, soccer balls and basket balls, two bikes, a lawn mower, various kitchen utensils, lots of canning jars and a canner, ... well, you get the idea. The garage is filling up with the stuff that we've outgrown, out used, or just won't have a place for in our new place. It's stuff we have to get rid of.

Some stuff has already been given or sold to others. A small TV with a VHS player to the my church's nursery. A second lawn mower to our neighbor. The basketball hoop to another neighbor. Landscaping tools and some plants to yet another neighbor. My kitchen island to a member of my church. Things we asked others if they could use because we thought they might and because we cared about what happened to them.

As I weed through the stuff in this house and think about what I really need for the next, I keep finding more stuff I really don't need. Why do I have so many sets of twin sheets when I only have one twin bed? Why so many sets of towels? Why so many curtain rods? Where did all these phone cords come from anyway? The more I open boxes and closets, the more stuff that ends up in my garage for the sale. I really don't need most of this stuff. So why did I buy it in the first place? And where has it been hiding all this time?

Some things I take hold of and wonder if I could possibly live without even though they have no practical value. It's all in the sentimental or memory value. The box of letters my mother wrote to me over the years. The tattered and worn table scarf that was Dan's grandmother's. The unity candle from our wedding. These collect dust or sit in a box untouched. Some are too fragile to be handled. Their real value is in the memory, the association to a loved one, the emotional connection. I can't bring myself to throw them away. So into a box they'll go and they'll get moved yet again.

Then there are the things I thought I lost that I'm finding. The keys to my roll top desk and firebox. The box of blank cassette tapes I replaced already. The angel food cake cutter that I bought in a kitchen specialty shop 10 years ago and only used once and lost. Treasures I fretted about losing that now will be sold in the garage sale. Not so valuable after all.

Moving is always a time to "clean house" and "clean out." We don't want so much weight in that moving van because we pay by the pound. This time, however, we're moving to a much smaller space. So, we really must pare down what we own, sort through our stuff and prioritize what is really important to keep and what we throw away, and what we can pass along to others either through this sale or by donating to a charity. We must make choices today that we may regret later -- either because we got rid of something of value or kept something that has no value at the other end of the move.

What would a "spiritual move" do in our lives? What if we intentionally chose to journey from where we so comfortably live now in the faith to a different place -- a new place? What if we explored a different way to express or experience our faith? What would we need to leave behind, or put in our "spiritual garage sale"? What would we pack away into "spiritual storage"? And how much of that would we later unload?

It was a spiritual garage sale that began our journey to this place -- a small town in Maryland where we would start a new faith community. We had to move to a whole new place spiritually to put ourselves where we could be open and ready to do God's new thing, re-imagine the Church for a new generation of people. We brought with us the necessities and a few things we didn't need. We left behind those things that were no longer useful. We had to find new tools and means once we began the new work. We made a move. We can't go back to where we were. We can only go forward to yet a new place.

As we ready ourselves to begin a new leg of our journey, moving on to other ministries in new places, we begin again the sorting and the sifting. This journey begins with divergent paths -- two journeys from one and merging again somewhere beyond the present. What will we need for the journeys? What will we take that we find we no longer need? What will we pass on to others who will find it useful?

Our garage is filled with the evidence of our material living. What is the evidence of our Spiritual living? What have we passed along to others? Given away freely? Offered at a price?
What's in your Spiritual Garage Sale?

Lenten Blessings!