“He’ll be here in a minute,” Logan says, sliding his phone into his pocket. His computer bag hangs over his shoulder, and he shifts under the weight. At his feet are stacks of belongings. Winter coat. Basket piled high with books. A bag stuffed with jeans and long sleeved shirts.
We’re waiting for Logan’s friend, his ride back to school.
The weekend has gone too fast.
I smile at my man-boy, unsure of whether to hug him again or not. These times are hard. For him. For me. I bite my lip as my chest tightens to that mama-clench again.
It will soon be time to let him go.
Catch and release parenting -that’s where I’m at these days, with my firstborn, the child who seems to have been carved straight from my own soul.
Gone are the times of daily, hands-on care. Gone is the boy with the wispy white hair and little hand that was custom made to fit mine. With me stands a man, tall and strong and broad.
And we caught him for a weekend. Wrapped our arms around him. Encouraged him. Shared laughter and sweet time. Two days of “I love you, Son. I’m glad you’re here.”
Now it’s time for the release.
It’s so quiet I can hear the ticking of the old Gilbert clock, the one Logan and my dad just fixed, measuring the last moments of a family complete.
The car moves into the drive.
I pull my son close and then let him go.
Be with him, God, this son I love. Keep him safe. Keep him strong.
I release him to your care, Lord, as he leaves our home.
But of course, I know,
he’s been Yours all along…..