"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another." ~Anatole France

Change.  A little word that is defined as: "to make the form, nature, content, future course, etc., of something different from what it is or from what it would be if left alone."  Back in the 1600's, a French philosopher rightly judged that "the only thing constant is change."

This week I have watched and listened as many parents prepared for the change that always comes in late August with the beginning of a new school year.  Like most parents, when our children began school and embarked upon that great journey that starts with Kindergarten, I felt a wistful sadness.  I remember taking our girls to school that first day, and how I cried as I left them there.  I expected that.  But what surprised me was the way I felt EVERY first day of school for the years that followed - even this week as my youngest began  his Junior year of college - that wistful sadness is still there.  No, it's not with the same fervor or anxiety that I felt that first time way back in 1996, but it's still there . . . . Why?  Because it is a tangible reminder of change.  A solid marker on the timeline of my life that time is marching on, and my children are growing up.

When our kids have reached those major mile markers of growth and change in their lives, I have tried to prepare myself.  Everyone tells you of the difficulties that come to your heart when you send them to school for the first time, let them go to their first sleepover, leave them for the first time at camp, watch them get behind the wheel of a car and drive themselves somewhere, celebrate their graduation from high school, and leave them at college.  And while all of that is true, and each of those events gives a palpable reminder of their growth away from us, one thing was always certain.  They would always be back.  Even with the college experience, this was home.  Their bedrooms always waited, unchanged.  Even if it was only summertime or winter break, the dirty dishes, piles of laundry, and late night laughter was a certainty.  A touchstone.  A constant in the midst of change.

Two months ago, our oldest changed her name, changed her life path, and forever changed her address.  Yes, that change is good, and we celebrated as she joined herself to a good man in marriage.  We gained a son whom we dearly love.  I did not cry at the wedding.  What was there to cry about?  My child was happy, and she was marrying someone who will help her go to heaven.  What more could a mother want?  But something hit me the week after the wedding when I went into her empty bedroom.  With all of the changes I had mentally and emotionally prepared myself for throughout this journey of parenthood, the hardest slap of reality came that day, when I realized that she's never coming "home" again.  You know, the change of address part.  Permanent.  Yes, she'll come back, in fact, she already has!  But she'll never live here again.  Her room here will no longer house her characteristic messiness, and summer mornings will never again consistently find her sitting in her pajamas at our kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading her Spanish Bible.

Tomorrow that slap of reality will hit me again when Daughter #2 begins her new stage of life in a different city, with a new permanent address, a big girl job, and a life on her own.  We are currently in the midst of shopping, list making, packing, etc., as we prepare for tomorrow's big move.  It is a good change for her; she will be using that Texas A&M degree in a job she has already tasted through last spring's internship, and one that she loves.  She will be in her element - helping children and their parents improve their lives.  She will make a difference in this world.  And yes, she will be back.  But never in the same way.  Her change of address will be permanent as well.  No longer will we sit down to dinner every evening to hear her ask, "Is anyone else cold?" or see her wrapped in a blanket in the living room on a summer day when the outside temperature is 105.  It's the daily interaction, her hilarious sarcasm, the goodnight kisses, and the "what's for supper?" questions I will miss the most.

But with the melancholy that comes as our two oldest leave the nest for good, there is also a deep joy and thankfulness.  So many parents today are grieved by their children's choices - something I have never experienced.  These two (actually, all three) first and foremost have their own faith, and their own individual relationships with our Heavenly Father.  They are godly young ladies who have much to offer this world, and what a blessing that they are forging out on their own, in new places, to be an influence and make an impact for good - and for God.  So next week as I set two plates at our dinner table, and that melancholy begins to set in, I will remember that.  And I will look forward to those times when I can joyfully set six plates at the table and our home is filled with their laughter and enthusiasm once again when they all come home to visit.

Elizabeth Stone once wrote, "Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."  Beginning tomorrow, my heart will be walking around in Dallas, Houston, and College Station simultaneously.  If you happen to bump into it in one of those places, be kind and gentle with it.  It might could even use a hug.

"The eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love." ~Margaret Atwood

The post below is something I wrote last February, and found it in my drafts folder this morning.  I'm not sure why I didn't post it then.  It was a good reminder for me as I re-read it today, and I thought it was worth sharing . . . 

On Thursday I stopped by a local pharmacy to pick up a few items we needed before I headed to the grocery store.  As I pulled into the CVS parking lot, I was surprised by the noticeable crowd of cars on an unremarkable Thursday morning.  What could be drawing that many people to CVS on a sunny mid-February day?  When I walked into the store, the answer to my question became apparent as I saw a line of people at the check-out.  Each one had red and pink greeting cards, boxes of candy, flowers, balloons, or stuffed animals in hand.  It was Valentine's Day, and the people waiting in line to pay for their purchases had waited until the last minute to buy tokens of their affection.  I finished at CVS and moved on to Brookshire's, where I witnessed the same thing.  Not only were people inside the store snatching up chocolate and flowers, but Brookshire's even had a huge tent set up outside in the parking lot to make the last-minute purchases more convenient.

As I stood in check-out lines at these two different stores behind people making their Valentine's Day purchases, I wondered what their stories were.  Each of them cared enough about someone in their life to go to the store, make a decision, and spend their money.  Some were no doubt happy to part with their cash, and looked forward to seeing the look of thanksgiving on the face of their beloved when their love token was received later that day.  Others may have simply been making a purchase out of a feeling of obligation.  And as I stood there, I wondered - do these people here making purchases to express their love on this holiday show their love in other ways every other day of the year?  I sure hope so.

Later in the afternoon, I drove to a neighboring town to attend a funeral.  The mother of one of my dearest friends passed away on Monday afternoon following a long, difficult battle with cancer.  No mention was made of the fact that it was Valentine's Day, but plenty of love was remembered and shown.  The son-in-law of the deceased spoke of his love for his mother-in-law.  He read Proverbs 31, spoke of how her life exemplified those qualities found there, and how she actively loved her family every single day.  Her four grown daughters, who all live in different states, exemplified their love, honor, and dedication to their mother in the last four years (yes, I said YEARS), as they rotated visits to make sure their mother was cared for continually.  I witnessed grandchildren who wept, knowing that a major influence in their lives was now gone.  And, I observed and shared in hugs given to express comfort and love that can not be adequately conveyed in any other way.

As I drove home, I thought about how superficial Valentine's Day can be in contrast to what I had just experienced.  Many years ago, the writer of Ecclesiastes said, "It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart."  No truer words were ever spoken.  When my body is lying in a casket at the front of a chapel, and my family and friends gather to remember my life, I doubt any mention will be made of what I did or didn't do on Valentine's Day.  Instead, I hope they will remember that I actively loved them every single day of every single year - a love that grew out of my love and relationship with the Author of love, who showed us the ultimate act of agape in giving His Son on a cross.

"So now faith, hope and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."  ~1 Corinthians 13:13