The garage "rock" band in which my eldest son spent much of his high-school life took over our basement about two years ago. Of course, this was entirely intentional on my husband's and my part -- we figured out when he was a sophomore that the band practices where the drum kit sits. So we bought the ear-bursting, sanity-blowing instrument in hopes that the kids would gather in our home as much as possible.
The plan worked marvelously, and we ended up spending many hours shouting our conversations above the blaring attempts by "Black Crappie" to make its mark in the music world. Little did I know that every single teenage boy that set foot in our home would take his turn at the drums. There was no escaping the sonic booms that permeated every square inch of our home. Even so, I found the music and noise alike delightful -- mostly because they were the defining sounds of my son.
Unbeknownst to Drew, there were many late nights when I crept quietly down the stairs to the kitchen which sits just above his basement bedroom. He often chose the stillness of the night to play the more melodious, personal tunes on his guitar. The sweetness of his music softly drifted through the AC vent, immersing my senses like soothing incense. It was often in these private moments of reflection and absorption that I prayed most fervently for guidance in my motherhood, and for the boy whose youth was fleeting before my very eyes.
Last weekend my husband, son and I entered a new era in our lives -- an era that we, like so many other parents before us, knew would come far too soon: We dropped off our first born at college.
It’s what all parents want for their children -- the time when they are set free as young adults to explore the world around them and chart their own course in life. Still, our family dynamics are changed forever, and what I find myself most grateful for are the many hours we spent with our son. The hours of molding and teaching; of training and Boy Scouts; of laughing and yelling (yes, sometimes yelling); of studying; of cleaning up; of rushed Sunday mornings late (again) for church; of lazy Saturdays and family vacations; of just being together.
I know in my heart that it’s the time we spent together as a family that has best prepared Drew to enter the world on his own. As I stare at his empty seat across the dining-room table, I'm overcome with gratitude that we fought the culture and demands of our busy world to bring our family together for those precious evening hours. It wasn't easy, and the dinners weren't always fun and games. But it was those hours spent together over the years that our children learned of our unfailing love, our deep faith in God, our parental expectations. In those hours, they came to experience a deep sense of security and belonging -- of knowing that although they may be far away some day, they will always be part of our home.
