The other day, I watched as my son, who was stuck in a challenging situation, stepped forward to advocate for himself—politely and firmly. He was heard without any apparent criticism, the problem was immediately resolved, and the world continued to turn.
It took my breath away. But at 15 and 17, he and his brother surprise me all the time. Somehow, the children we’ve been raising since they were toddlers have become almost-men, practically adults, mature humans unto themselves.
They perform solos in auditoriums and hit triples on baseball fields and manage situations with confidence and poise. I cheer or clap or sit silently in admiration and wonder.
Because they are my children, and yet they are not. They are people all their own. They have always belonged to God and to themselves. And I am merely a spectator who has been blessed to pour myself into them, love them with my entire being, and then hope and pray for them to become the people God created them to be.
They are individuals whose lives are intertwined forever with us, their parents, and yet they will always have their own stories. They are writing the next chapters of those stories now.
The pen is not in my hand, and maybe it never was. These are their stories to write. I’m just grateful to have a seat to watch them unfold.
We don’t have a graduation in our household this year, but there is something about spring that makes me catch my breath. Time is flying. Next year we will have a sophomore and a senior in high school. Where do the years go?
This week we celebrate the Feast of the Visitation, when the Blessed Mother goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s child—John the Baptist—recognizes his cousin Jesus, still in utero, and leaps in Elizabeth’s womb.
Without words or explanation, filled with the Holy Spirit, Elizabeth knows she is in the presence of God, and she greets Mary with joy and awe.
Perhaps there is a lesson for those of us who would like to slow time down just a little bit here. Maybe Elizabeth offers a model for how to focus on seeing Jesus in our children as we watch them grow and stretch and become more mature, independent versions of themselves. She embraces the moment with grace, trust, hope, and abundant joy.
What beautiful clarity. What wonderful confidence. What a magnificent moment of encounter. At a time of dramatic change for her and for her cousin, she inspires us to be open to what lies ahead, to lean into joy—and to look for Jesus in others.
So here we go. But forgive me if I tear up a bit thinking that next year I’ll be packing my rising senior’s lunchbox for the last time.
Painting by Philippe de Champaigne
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