A parable about letting go

For parents who have successfully shepherded their children into adulthood and believed the home stretch was in sight, a parable:

On a recent morning, your 21-year-old son informs you he is making a short trip to Austin to visit friends.

He’s living at home this summer to save money for the two international trips he has planned during his break in classes at UNT. Last month, he spent a week in Switzerland and Germany with two buddies and made it home without getting blown up by terrorists. In a few days, he and his sister will journey to Israel on a Birthright trip both have anticipated for years. You’re already fretting about that little adventure because your 15 years on the DMN’s International Desk taught you a few things about the world and none of them are reassuring.

College has matured your son. He’s no longer the muddle-headed flibbertigibbit you sent to Denton three years ago, fearful of the dangerous lures a college town can have on an aimless spirit. He’s become a thoughtful, responsible young man and a good student. Last semester, he made the Dean’s List for the second year in a row.

So when you hear about the Austin trip, you aren’t alarmed – until you hear the details. He’ll drive to Austin on Wednesday afternoon and, for reasons that make sense only to him, he and a UNT pal will spent one day in the capital and start home sometime after midnight on Thursday.

Negotiating I-35 in the wee hours after an evening of bar-crawling on Sixth Street sounds like an appalling idea. But you swallow your reservations – mindful of the promise you made to yourself to give the young adult living under your roof some space – and wish him good luck and God’s speed.

On Thursday night, you go to bed at the regular time and manage to drift into a troubled sleep. But at 2 a.m. your eyes pop open and you know any further sleep will be impossible until you hear his key in the front door.

You lay there, your mind swimming with every wayward traveler’s story you covered during a long newspaper career. You remember the grieving parents you’ve interviewed, only now – in your mind’s eye – it is you who is answering the questions and struggling with the loss.

Then, at 4:45 a.m. you hear the sound you’ve been praying for. The scrape of his key, his shoulder muscling the sticky front door open. Home, at last! A dozen things flash through your head. You want to scold him for not calling to give you an ETA, to lecture him about the dangers of highway travel at night, to deliver a lesson in responsibility and consideration for those who love him.

But you don’t do any of that. Instead, you ask if he had any trouble on the road and wish him a good night. As he trudges tiredly upstairs to fall into a blissful sleep, you lie back exhausted, thankful that inexorable fate has spared you again by passing your door without stopping. And as you, too, slip into dreamless slumber, only three words are on your mind, “Thank you, God.”