Hardest Prayer I’ve Prayed

There are days that I ask–

Why did we allow our son to go so soon?

He can’t vote, can’t get a tattoo, can’t operate a meat slicer at a grocery store, can’t rent a car, can’t buy spray paint, can’t get a lottery ticket, can’t buy tobacco, can’t serve on a jury, book a hotel room, or get a Costco card. However, he can join the military (with parental consent) and fight for our country, maybe give his life for you and me, and for others who don’t love this country enough to deserve his sacrifice.

We could have said, “Not now. Maybe next year. Just. Not. Yet.” Yet we didn’t question or flinch, we just signed. My eyes welled up with tears on the day we gave permission to his recruiter who put papers in front of Eli and handed me the tissue box. We willingly betrothed him to his new dad, Uncle Sam, then went home, slightly considering that the inevitable wouldn’t happen any time soon. But let me say, the pride of his decision felt like fireworks going off in my stomach. I’d tell complete strangers at the grocery, “My son is shipping out next week,” and I’m certain they heard the fourth of July celebration I was having with myself.

However, the sucker punch didn’t come until a few months later when we waved good-bye at the American Airlines gate. He didn’t look back as he and a couple others sprinted towards the jet bridge. We were busy laughing with the other families about that impending buzz cut that we didn’t hear the gate agent call them to board. There were no last kisses or hugs—just the whirlwind of a few kids who looked like they were headed to the locker room after a Friday night win. 

After we left the terminal, we sat in the car unsure of what to do next. Eli was headed to boot camp, end of question: no regrets, no turning back. No telling his new uncle we’d made a mistake. Right then and there, with a knot the size of Texas in my gut, I told myself we’d done the wrong thing.

But had we? 

Part of me–oh so glad he went. He was going nowhere staying at home, messing around with the wrong kids, getting into trouble, jumping job to job. The other part? I couldn’t imagine my baby being the brunt of a drill sergeant who didn’t care what he said about this mama and other choice phrases I can’t share with my PG-rated friends.

Finally, when the three months of nervous fuzzies surrounding whether he’d survive boot camp were over, and when our son successfully earned the title of US Marine, my heart started to breath again. He did it. This was it. The crowning achievement of his entire 17 years. The only problem was I hadn’t thought of anything beyond graduation, his visit home for two weeks, hugging him tightly, and showing him off to my friends at church. 

I hadn’t thought about our next good-bye or how difficult the real letting go would be.

Fast forward to ten months on the other side and everything has changed. He talks differently, careful of what he does and doesn’t tell me. He walks into a room differently, his head held high and shoulders square, which has added a couple inches to his previously lanky stature. Yet along with his perfect posture comes the reality that it’s only a matter of time until he deploys. Even though we aren’t in a time of war, the fact that he will be half way around the world in places where the political scenery changes on a daily basis has brought me to a new understanding and appreciation. Oh yeah, I can be heard belting out Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue with Toby Keith on most days, but in the middle of the night I’m begging God to watch over my kid since I’m not close enough to personally hold on to him with my bare hands.

I’m not in control any longer (as if I ever were). I’ve had to stop talking about letting go–biting my cuticles ’til they’re raw, overthinking where he could go, and all the ifs, ands and buts. I can’t track his phone, question how late he stayed out, or argue about what he does with his money. Those days are over. With the letting go comes a relief that I can’t do anything else except pray and trust God. Almost like it’s time to find a hammock on the beach somewhere and rest in the knowledge that in good and bad, battles and calm, God has Eli square in the palm of His hand. After all, he is a good Father who knows my thoughts, and knows my son, and loves us each so very much.

And so, my simple but difficult prayer has become:

God, he’s yours. Whatever he does, wherever he goes, let it all be for Your glory. 

Amen. Amen. And Amen.

 

For My Son

I had to do a double take to make sure it was you.

Blue eyes, I’d recognize them anywhere.
Tight smile that curves to form a half moon–
I’ve seen it since your kindergarten school picture.
Those hands—if you were covered in camouflage from head to toe, I’d pick them out of a thousand. Long spindly fingers, knuckles with scars from hitting the wall, and a few people.

It must be the uniform—
I’m not used to seeing you in anything besides sweatshirts and jeans with holes.
You are more handsome today than any Sunday you proudly wore Dad’s sports coat and shoes that were a size too big for your feet.

So I look at your picture for the hundredth time and realize everything in a single moment. You aren’t the boy who left us in July. To be honest, I’m having a difficult time admitting who you’ve become, for reasons too many to list.

I tell myself: mourn one last time for that boy. The freckled faced kid whose room was always a disaster, gobs of tennis shoes thrown into the closest, shirts half hanging out of the drawer, a miracle they made it that far. The boy who feasted on Sour Patch Kids and mashed potatoes and chicken nuggets drenched in buffalo sauce from Chick-Fil-A.

Your boyhood went by quickly and part of me wishes you could have held on a little longer, seen a few more Friday night lights, come home smelling like a campfire another time or two, mud on your boots, and your flannel smelling the woods you spent the night in. A few more times when your friends showed up unexpectedly and sat on the barstools as we laughed over chocolate chip cookies and glasses half filled with milk. You and me, watching reruns of The Office for hours, going to the movies and getting large blue icee’s and quietly pulling out candy from Walgreen’s that was stuffed in my purse.

Today I tucked that boy into bed for the final time. I must move on.

 Now.

I see you, Son, more confident that you’ve ever been. Your uniform pressed, tie perfectly straight, hair shaved to a perfect fade. Your smile says all I need. You are happy, you are strong. You are doing more than I ever dreamed for you, accomplished on your own. You doing this without me is what makes me prouder than I’ve ever been.

Now go.

The path is leading you to places I will never see or experience with my own eyes. But know this. I will be with you, my thoughts and prayers hovering over you like the weighted blanket I recently bought for you, only a pound or four heavier.

I said GO. Be the man God intended you to be. It’s your time to shine and put everything you’ve learned, even some of what we’ve taught you, into motion. It won’t be easy, because being an adult is never easy, yet every trial you face today will produce endurance for tomorrow. Stay strong.

And pray. Pray like never before when you’re in need. Because God is with you, like never before. He has all the strength you’ll ever need, so dig deep and grab hold of His strength with the fierceness of a fighter who never gives up.

I love you, Son. And I love this new man who takes what he has been called to with great seriousness, who squares his shoulders back before telling me things I don’t understand. It all makes sense now. How everything we ever went through with you built you up for such a time as this. Not all boys become the man you are. Only the bravest have what it takes.

Thank you for being one of the bravest.