The past ten days have been rough, and it's about to get rougher still--my eldest daughter, my firstborn, is leaving the country this weekend, returning to her home of eight years in Bangalore, India. After a very busy and extremely full nine months here in the US, admittedly the longest American furlough they've experienced since 2013, they are, almost certainly, leaving on that jet plane sung about by Peter, Paul, and Mary over half a century ago. And I am beyond sad, beyond teary-eyed. Making it even harder? Half of our grandchildren are leaving as well, and we are not sure when we will be seeing them again, current travel restrictions and canceled tourist visas considering. So here I am, on the cusp of my 66th year on the planet, and all I can think about is this: Does she realize how much I love her? Does she know I'd go to the ends of the earth for her? That I cherish every moment and every second I've been privileged to spend with her? Sure, I adore her children, like I adore all my grandkids, but most of all, I love being a mom. I love watching my daughters be moms, and it has been my most cherished joy witnessing their growth as they have blossomed into young women, wives, new moms, and now accomplished middle-aged women themselves. These feelings cause twinges of guilt over how much (or how little) time I spent talking and visiting with my parents, thoughts back to when I was a young mom, with a job and kids, with all the activities and busy-ness associated with that stage of life.
Lord give me peace and strength and courage as I grieve the departure of this sweet family.
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