My son Nathan graduated from high school in 1998. Wow!
That’s 20 years next year. Can’t
believe it. Anyway, I was asked to give
a parent’s response at his baccalaureate service all those years ago. As I’ve spent the last couple of weekends
with graduation activities for the high school seniors in our church family, I
thought I might help parents a bit by sharing some of my remarks at my son’s
baccalaureate 19 years ago.
*********
Did
you ever see Fiddler on the Roof? One of the classic songs to come out of that
musical seems fitting for us parents on a day like today:
Is
this the little girl I carried?
Is
this the little boy at play?
I
don't remember growing older.
When
did they?
When
did she get to be a beauty?
When
did he grow to be so tall?
Wasn't
it yesterday when they were small?
Sunrise,
sunset; sunrise, sunset;
Swiftly
fly the days.
For
most of you graduates, the speed of the last eighteen years may have felt like
a round of golf on a busy day: hit and wait; hit and wait; hit and wait. But for us parents, these years have felt
more like a fast break in basketball; like an 80-yard touchdown pass—just a few
seconds and it's over. So cut us a
little slack if we seem a little more sentimental, a little more nostalgic than
usual. Be patient with us if we run
through a box or two of Kleenex dabbing our misty eyes. This is all pretty emotional for us. We're happy for you, but we're a little sad
all at the same time. It's sort of like
swimming through a bowl of sweet and sour sauce.
You
see, we remember. We remember how our
hearts leapt when the doctor told us you were on the way. We remember lying in bed at night trying to
come up with a name we could both agree on—we hope you like it okay. We remember the thrill of holding you in our
arms for that very first time. And when
we did, well, something happened inside of us that let us know we would be
connected forever. You were bone of our
bones and flesh of our flesh. And if you
have been adopted, you are the very child of our choice. And we are bound together—bound in ways words
cannot articulate. We dads remember
proudly pointing you out to others through that nursery window at the
hospital—and even though we may not have said it out loud, we believed in our
hearts that you were the pick of the litter, the finest looking baby in the
bunch. We still do.
And
we remember taking you home. Video
cameras cost about a zillion dollars in those days so most parents didn’t have
them. But we had an instamatic camera,
and we got plenty of snapshots of that Kodak moment. Now I know you don't remember this stuff, but
trust me, you were there. And some of us
parents can see it as if happened yesterday, and we remember it.
And
we remember when reality set in. We
quickly discovered that you weren't a doll in a box. You were a person, and you were determined to
let us know that you were in the house and you were claiming your space. You woke us up a lot those first few
months. We dads usually pretended to be
asleep so mom would have to tend to you, but you woke us up too. And before any teacher ever schooled you in
the "three r's" of
"reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic," you gave us a thorough education in the three p's—pee, poop, and puke—and
you were very undiscerning about when and where you did all three. You took a lot of patience in those first
many months. I read about a young father
in the supermarket pushing the shopping cart which held his screaming
baby. The father could be heard
muttering gently under his breath, "Easy,
Freddy, calm down now. Everything's all
right, boy. Come on, Freddy, don't get
upset." A woman customer gave
him a real pat on the back by saying, "You
are very patient with little Freddy." To which the young father replied, "Lady, I'm Freddy." Most of us parents, we've been there—many,
many times over these last eighteen years we've been there.
Parenting
is such a roller-coaster ride. We've walked
with you from most of your firsts to many of your lasts in this era of your
life. We remember so many firsts with
fondness: first tooth, first word, first step, first haircut—back when we got
to choose the style. We remember the
first ballgame, the first recital, the first day of school, the first
date. Those firsts were happy
firsts. But other firsts were more
trying: your first big sin against what you knew was right—that moment when we
realized that you weren't as perfect as we hoped you were. Then there was your first note from the
teacher, your first trip to the emergency room.
And then when you started driving, well, that ushered in a whole new set
of worries. Many of us have felt like
the dad who received this Father's Day card from his sixteen-year-old son. The card reads: "Dad, everything I ever learned I learned from you, except one
thing … The family car really will do 110." And your driving offered some of us parents a
few other firsts to remember: first wreck, first ticket, first court
appearance, first community service. And
then, we struggled right alongside you with other firsts you experienced—like
your first funeral of a loved one, your first broken heart, your first big
disappointment. Parenting you has been
such a mixture of worry and rejoicing, celebration and sorrow, good times and
hard times. Just like life, I
guess. But it's been a good ride all in
all. There may have been a few times
when we wanted to go to PTA meetings under an assumed name, but by and large,
the journey has been a joy, and we wouldn't have missed it for the world.
So
here’s some of what we want to say you graduates: "Way to go! You survived us, and all in all you look to
be in good shape." How many of you are first borns?—raise your
hands. Well, you were the guinea pigs
many of us parents had to experiment with and learn on. Sometimes I marvel that my son Nathan is
turning out as well as he is. When Nathan
was about three years old, I was trying to watch a Razorback game while he was
supposed to be napping. Very few
Razorback games made TV in Kansas City, so I liked to devote full attention to
them when they were on. But Nathan wasn't
cooperating. He kept calling me for this
or that, and I kept telling him to pipe down and take his nap. It became a war of words that wouldn't have
escalated if I had just gone in there in taken care of the situation. But I was more interested in my game than I
was in my son at that moment. So I let
it get out of hand. I got so mad at his
interruptions that I decided I'd fix him good … at the next commercial, of
course. Since he was being so mouthy, I
determined to wash out his mouth with soap—and not just any soap, but dishwashing soap. So I dragged him by his little arm into the
kitchen, put a few drops of that slimy, blue liquid on my finger, and smeared
it across his teeth and mouth. Then he
looked up at me, tears streaming down his sweet, pudgy cheeks, and do you know
what he did? He blew a soap bubble. Then I laughed and he laughed and I scooped
him up in my arms and gave him a great big ol' hug. You know, I knew then that with a dad like me
the kid was in trouble, but it's amazing what a little love and laughter and
forgiveness can do for a family. I hope
there's been a lot of that in your family.
But even if there hasn't, you survived us. You made it.
And now you get a fresh new start.
Still, however, let's make a deal right here: we won't tell all our
stories on you, if you won't tell all your stories on us.
And
graduates, we also want to say thank you.
Thank you for being you. We
delight in you. We are so proud of
you. There is no way you can know the
depth of our feelings until you stand in our place in about 25 years or
so. How we love you! And how we thank you. Thank you for including us in your lives, your
world, your friends, and your dreams.
That means a lot to us. And we
say thank you.
And
then we ask you something too: please be patient with us as we work at letting
you go. We've been working on that ever
since you've been born, some of us with more success than others. Whether it was presenting you to the church
for baptism or dedication, watching you walk through the door of the primary
school for your first day of kindergarten, running alongside of you steadying
your bicycle and then giving you a gentle shove and cheering you on as you
pedaled down the street on your own, we were learning to let you go. Giving you car keys on your 16th birthday was
another big step. And now, as we
celebrate your graduation and send you off to work or college, we are letting
go most of all. We are going to do it,
but be patient with us and understand that it's probably a good bit easier for
you to be let loose than it is for us
to turn loose.
After
all, literally or figuratively, we've been holding your hands for a long time. And those hands weren't always so large as
they are now. They once were baby hands
that squeezed our fingers. Hands you
used to play peek-a-boo. Hands with
which you smashed spaghetti into your face while trying to get it into your
mouth. They were small hands that turned
the pages when we were reading you a book, tiny hands folded in prayer at bedside
and at table. And those little hands
were the hands we parents held when we walked you across a street or through a
mall.
But
now those hands are big and strong.
Hands that in many cases dwarf our own.
Hands strong and gentle. But
hands that offer help to others. Hands
that hold the potential to do much good in life. Hands that hold a growing
responsibility. Hands that will find new
work and challenges to tackle. Hands
that will find new hands to hold. They
are strong hands, big hands all right—hands strong enough and big enough to
hold a diploma and firmly shake the hand of the one who gives it.
So
use your hands wisely and well, okay. We
will let them go. But we encourage you
to put your hands into the hands of God.
And then, with our two free hands, we send you on your journey with
prayers and this blessing—"You are
our beloved sons and daughters, in whom we are well pleased."
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