Leaving Baby

By the time she was three, she was the best mother in the world.  Her babies were well fed, lovingly rocked, tenderly kissed, and doted over on par with any caring mama anywhere. 

One fateful Sunday night when she was four, we drove the thirty miles home from an evening church service.  As we pulled into the yard, my little Hannah, the best preschool mother in the world, became distraught.  Through tears she confessed that she had forgotten her doll in the church nursery.  The price of gas and extra hour on the road meant nothing to her.  I comforted as best I could but she was inconsolable.  Finally, after hugs, kisses, and reassurances that we would retrieve her baby at our earliest convenience, she calmed down and we put her to bed.

The neglected doll in question, Butterfly, was the oldest of Hannah’s children and her go-to favorite.  There were the triplets, Tiffany, Biffany, and Spiffany, but Butterfly went everywhere with her mini mom.  (On a side note, I have requested that Hannah let me help name her future living children as I fear with her naming track record my future grandchildren will be in for some playground teasing.  But I digress…).

Later, when she was tucked safely into her princess castle bed and I thought she was asleep, I heard noise as I walked down the hall.  Following the source, I found my baby girl crying softly into her pillow, her tiny face streaked with tears.  “Oh, honey, what’s the matter?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.  “My baby must be so scared in the dark!” she wailed through sobs and hiccups.  I suppressed a smile, pulled her tiny frame into my arms, and kissed her tears away.

Butterfly was retrieved the next day and delivered to her very relieved mother.

In my mind’s eye, she is still busy with the daily cares of a four-year-old.  There are dolls to feed and shaggy, overfed dogs to pet and Bob the Builder to watch.  Her eyes are enormous black pools in a tiny face.  I see her in a hundred different mental snapshots. She slides off her chair at the end of meal and climbs onto my lap.  She tucks her soft little hand into mine, content to lean against me and listen to the chatter of brothers and parents.  She does not add to the conversation – she is far too shy for that.  Instead, she absorbs and melts into my frame.  She is quiet, shy, and even-tempered.  She is unadulterated joy to her father and I.

And now she is going away.

“How will you bear it?” well-meaning people ask.  “You’ll be a wreck when you drive away.”

I myself thought I would experience the same anguish as Little Hannah on that long ago Sunday night when my time came to leave her in the arms of a university. 

I find am not distraught. 

She is ready.

She chose the large university over the more intimate institution.  She was brave enough to seek an experience unlike her K-12 years in a tiny rural school.  She’s got moxie, I’ll give her that.  She is the first of the Dahl children to choose public over private college and the first to do her undergraduate years in state.  She is already blazing her own path and charting a course as unique as she.  I respect her for that.

I wanted her last hours at home to be filled with sweet, golden memories.  And so I called her away from her packing one day this week and had a tea party spread out for us.  Just like when she was tiny.  We sipped our French Vanilla tea and munched on sweet rolls and talked of ordinary things.  But as we laughed and jabbered about minutia, my heart was memorizing that moment in our sun-drenched kitchen.   I have been through this three times before. I know that in many ways, our life will be forever altered; our relationship redefined.

I feel her soul pulling away.  She no longer needs us as she used to.  A part of me wishes she did.  Then I am reminded that we raised her for this.  We want her to become strong and independent.  I pray we have given her the foundation to weather the next years capably and emerge on the other end triumphant. 

I will pray for her everyday.  Every.single.day.  I will awake with her on my subconscious mind and will fall asleep with a quiet whisper sent heavenward.  She is not alone, although some days will feel that way to her. 

She is loved, yes.  But just as importantly, we entrust this child, our youngest child and only daughter, into the Father’s care, to watch over her, send people into her life that will make her path brighter, and morph into the adult we always believed she would become.

And so…

When her dad and I crawl into bed on her first night away, and I am tempted to leak desperate tears into my pillow, distraught that my baby is scared without my presence, I hope I will remember that she is strong.  She is capable.  It is her time.  She is ready.

Instead of tears, I will splash words of blessing over her head and into her heart, where I hope they will seep deep into her soul and add joy to her journey.    She is not alone, nor am I.  God will be faithful. 

Dear Creator of all Life, who entrusted this child into our care, gather my precious lamb into your Shepherd’s arms and hold her close to your heart (Isaiah 40:11).  Let the Light of Truth be her guide and give her a heart of discernment to make wise choices that bring Life and Light into her future. 

And on the days when I most miss her, help me to remember that you love her even more that I do.  Amen.