You let me go

When I was a kid, I remember you teaching me to swim in Gramps’ pool.  Your hand supported my back while I learned to float, hair drifting around my head and ripples lapping at my ears.  While I adjusted to the sensation of buoyancy, you let go …. and let me float on my own. 

You held the back of my bicycle that summer day in Harundale, in an empty church parking lot next to our house.  Having removed the training wheels, you helped me balance, and then you let go.  And I rode off on my own, victorious! 

You taught me to drive in an empty parking lot, too.  Late at night, once the industrial park was empty, you helped me master the skills of maneuvering in and out of parking spaces.  And I remember that Sunday night after church, when you handed me the family car keys, and you let me drive home. 

You stood on a sidewalk outside a college dorm, sweating after carrying in all sorts of boxes and installing fans and bookshelves.  You gave me your last words of advice (don’t spend too much money, keep in touch, do your best) and then you drew my tearful mother away and you let me go …. into that dorm and into my own future.  

Just four years later, you stood at the security gate of the BWI airport, while I prepared to leave on my first missions term. Only this time I was the one crying because the Israeli security was so mean to me. Probably you and Mom were crying then, too, because a year was a long time in those days without email, text, or internet connection.  But you stood at that gate and said goodbye and then…. you let me go.  

From my first steps in our living room, to the last airport drop-off a few months ago, you continually let me go.

In the abstract of decisions and confusions of life and ministry, you’ve let me stand on my own.  In the concrete moments of ministry on church platforms and pulpits, you’ve let me live out my calling. You’ve let me go out into the world as an independent woman, prepared and practiced, because that’s what GREAT FATHERS do—give us the example, the opening, the possibilities and the confidence that we can be successful—and then you let go.  

Happy Father’s Day to the best example ever!