After They Left

They left a few minutes ago.

I'm still sitting here thinking about it.

David is officially a seventh grader.

Jacob is officially a fifth grader.

And the house already feels different.

They've been ready since early this morning.

Backpacks on.

Shoes ready.

Excitement everywhere.

There have been nerves leading up to today.

Plenty of them.

We've had the conversations.

We've answered the questions.

We've tried to prepare them for everything we could think of.

But this morning?

They were ready to go.

Yesterday helped.

They got to meet their teachers.

Walk into their classrooms.

See some of the things waiting for them this year.

Jacob was visibly excited.

Looking at everything his teacher has planned, he should be.

I think some of the uncertainty disappeared the moment the unknown became a real classroom with a real teacher and real things waiting for him to discover.

Then there was David.

By the time they came home yesterday, I could already see something changing.

School David was coming back.

It's something we noticed last year.

A little more patient.

A lot more kind.

More observant.

More willing to step up when someone needs him.

There is a version of himself that David seems to discover when he's given responsibility and a place to exercise it.

Yesterday, I could already see him slipping back into it.

I'm excited to see who he becomes this year.

Then this morning arrived.

Pictures on the porch.

Backpacks over shoulders.

One last round of making sure everyone had everything.

And eventually...

Time to go.

I sat on the front porch as the van pulled away.

My wife driving.

My two boys inside.

Off toward something we've spent most of the summer preparing for.

Then they disappeared down the road.

And everything got quiet.

Not completely quiet.

We still have a house full of people.

Work is waiting for me.

Zoey is doing school.

Asher is still Asher.

The animals certainly haven't agreed to observe a moment of silence.

Life is happening.

But the house sounds different.

For months we've been preparing for this.

School supplies.

Meetings.

Conversations on the porch.

Questions late at night.

New routines.

Earlier bedtimes.

Earlier mornings.

Trying to squeeze a little more summer out of the calendar while knowing exactly where all of it was leading.

Today.

That's one of the strange things about being a parent.

You spend so much time preparing your children to leave.

Not leave forever.

Not yet.

Just thousands of little departures.

The first time they do something without you.

The first time they spend the night somewhere else.

The first classroom.

The next classroom.

The first time they walk through a door and you don't follow.

You prepare them for it.

You encourage them.

You tell them they're ready.

You hope they believe you.

Then eventually they walk out the door...

And you're the one standing there wondering if you're ready.

I was.

I am.

Mostly.

Zoey is already well into her own school year.

She's figuring out the online program almost as quickly as we are.

There are still things we're learning.

When classes unlock.

What needs to happen each week.

How everything fits together.

But she's on top of it.

More than on top of it.

She's flying.

Asher gets a little more summer.

His school year starts after Jacob's birthday.

My wife has been quietly preparing for that too.

This year will look different for both of them.

A lot more one-on-one time.

A lot more opportunity to build school around the way Asher learns.

I'm excited for them.

So, as of this morning, three of our four children are officially in school.

Summer isn't technically over.

But around here...

It's already becoming a memory.

My own school year is changing too.

Yesterday afternoon, the grade came in for my final Sociology podcast.

The one I worried about.

The one that took five drafts.

The one where I spent twenty minutes looking at Fight Club through a completely different lens than I ever had before.

350 points possible.

350 points earned.

I'm proud of that.

I really am.

I'm getting slightly better at allowing myself to say things like that.

But here's the truth.

Jacob walking into fifth grade excited this morning means more to me.

Seeing David become that slightly more patient, observant version of himself again means more to me.

Watching Zoey find a way of learning where she can absolutely take off means more to me.

And soon, watching Asher get his turn with Mom will mean more too.

That's just how I'm built.

I could probably collect every award I'll ever earn, finish every degree I'll ever attempt, and accomplish every ridiculous thing I decide to chase.

One small win for one of my kids would still outweigh all of it.

Every time.

Tonight I'll submit my final replies for Anthropology.

Then I'll wait somewhat impatiently for the remaining grades to appear.

Monday, two new classes begin.

Five classes remain between me and the finish line.

The clock keeps moving.

So will I.

But that's later.

Tonight also brings something different.

A pastor is coming to our home.

We're having a light supper and a conversation about a church we've been exploring.

There are questions.

A lot of them.

Things we're trying to understand.

Things we're praying about.

Possibly another beginning sitting quietly inside an ordinary Wednesday evening.

We'll see where it leads.

Streaming has been waiting too.

The last few weeks simply haven't left much room for it.

Getting the kids ready for school.

Doing my own schoolwork.

Life.

Then discovering an audio problem that took some time to diagnose and work through.

Something had to give.

Streaming did.

That's okay.

The problems are getting sorted.

I'm feeling better about the setup.

The button is still there.

I'll push it again.

Everything will be fine.

There is a lot beginning right now.

David and Jacob started school this morning.

Zoey is finding her stride.

Asher is getting ready.

I'm finishing one term and preparing for another.

Our family is asking questions about where we belong on Sunday mornings.

Even parts of my creative life are waiting for their next turn.

Everything seems to be moving.

Which makes it funny that the moment I keep coming back to is the one where I wasn't moving at all.

The van pulled away.

I sat on the porch.

For just a little longer than I needed to.

Work was waiting.

There were emails.

Meetings.

Things that needed doing.

I could have gotten up immediately.

I didn't.

For weeks, we've been talking about this day.

Preparing for it.

Counting down toward it.

Wondering how the boys would feel when it finally arrived.

Then it did.

And they were ready.

So I stayed on the porch for another minute.

Not because I wanted to stop them.

Not because I wanted yesterday back.

Not even because I was sad.

I was proud.

Proud of the seventh grader disappearing down the road.

Proud of the fifth grader sitting beside him.

Proud of the freshman working down the hall.

Already excited for the youngest boy whose turn is coming soon.

Time is going to keep doing what time does.

The sun will rise.

Then set.

School years will begin.

Then end.

Children will walk out doors we spent years preparing them to walk through.

We can't stop any of it.

I don't think we're supposed to.

But sometimes...

After they leave...

We can sit still long enough to notice.

A lot of parenting is preparation. We teach, encourage, correct, answer questions, buy what they need, and try to give our children enough confidence to walk into whatever comes next. Eventually, though, preparation has to become trust. They have to take the next step themselves. Those moments can leave the house feeling a little quieter, but they also give us a chance to see what all that preparation was for. Our children aren't supposed to stay exactly where they are. Neither are we. The best we can do is help them get ready, cheer when they step forward, and occasionally stay on the porch for another minute to appreciate how far they've already gone.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

And I will see you, next time.