"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.