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Writer's pictureA Lady in Defiance

Walk a Mile in Those Mocassins

The Parent Path

When I was leaving for college back in '80-something, I remember thinking of myself as a racehorse in a derby. I was pawing at the ground, stomping my hoofs, and waiting for the gate to fling open and free me.


Like a racehorse, I didn't look back. I didn't consider for a second the feelings of those around me. My brain and my heart weren't big enough for such thoughts.


Life was all about me. And I was ready to charge into it. Adventure awaited.


I never once took a quiet, thoughtful moment to appreciate the bittersweetness of my departure from home. How my parents felt. How they would wander into my room from time to time and wonder what I was up to. How my phone calls home on Saturdays or Sundays brightened their day.


Then I became a parent. My glimpse into "the other side" started clearing. I stayed awake some nights praying for my children's safety and waiting for that midnight curfew to hit. The relief I felt when I heard their cars in the driveway was awesome.


But watching my son leave for the Marines was a totally new experience. I wouldn't be able to communicate with him. I would wonder about him and pray for him. I would wander into his room and try to imagine what he was doing at that moment.


I never walked in my parents's shoes until this all occurred. And I realized then how much they has missed me. How much my phone calls had lifted their spirits and had them walking on air for days. How they had lamented that empty bedroom.


And I missed it. I didn't appreciate all the love and affection at the time. I took it for granted because this horse wanted to gallop. On some shallow level, I knew my parents loved me and I loved them. Too often, however, my calls home were obligatory. I was busy but I worked them in. 


Visits home over the years were warm and wonderful. The older I got, though, and the more kids I had, the more my understanding of a parent's longing grew.


Still, I wasn't able to actually walk in their shoes, completely empathize with them, until my son left home. 


My parents did it six times. Just once is killing me. 


I accept, though, that this is the way it is intended to be. God has plans for my boys and I will release them...as I slip into my parents' mocassins.


Sad and beautiful, isn't it? Being a parent, I mean.
















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