syd smith: 19
Dear Syd,
Today you are nineteen. Last night I tried to write about you on this very blog, but instead I watched the Gilmore Girls re-boot. (Just the part about Richard's funeral, because the look Lorelai has on her face as she is trying to let go, standing in the shade of a giant tree, staring at the casket, is me. Letting go of you. Not that you're dead. But still.)
I was going to write this beautiful image of you paddling away in a canoe from the bay of Lake Michigan headed to Pebble Beach, while I stood on the end of the pier watching you go and always waiting for your return. This is what my grandfather did for me, whenever your Uncle Tim and I packed up some pbj's and struck out for an adventure. I think if my grandpa could have attached a thread from his windbreaker sleeve to my orange life preserver, he would have done it.
But instead of writing that, I drank a little chocolate tequila. I looked at pictures of you and your cousin Davielle when you were small, holding chickens. I texted it to you. Then told myself not to text you.
Letting go is a dumb phrase and I really don't like it. I want to come downstairs late at night to find the house dark, except for the light in the pantry where I will find you standing silently with a spoon as you help yourself to some peanut butter. I want to hear your loud laugh at inappropriate times, like when I'm crying during Friends (you get that from your father.) I want to watch you stare at Ben across the dinner table as you think of what to say to provoke him, to get him to open his mouth.
Sometimes I think you are wiser than me. But it doesn't stop me from getting angry when I feel you think you know it all.
This is the fight I have, to stay present in your life from the far shore. As the quote kind of goes, a ship is no good when it stays safe in the harbor. I will be standing sure on the pier if you need me, but not to cast out a line. It will be to cheer you on, in that Good-Will-Hunting way. I want to walk out on that pier and be really happy when I see the canoe is no longer there.
Here's the thing: I really believe in you. So while some parents may fret that their Christian son is going to a secular college and contemplating tattoos and did get his ears pierced, I am hopefully optimistic you will be okay. This is my way of telling the grandparents that you got your ears pierced, by the way.
When some people tell me art majors graduate to live in their parents' basements, I don't let it concern me. Because I know the talent you have, the drive you have, the brain you have, and the stellar upbringing you have had, by way more than just your dad and I. You have had grandparents pour into you, aunts, uncles, cousins, youth leaders, pastors, therapists, teachers, friends' mothers, and your friends. It takes a village. Oh, and one badly behaved dog to teach you patience. Oh, and you're missing some fingers and have a killer smile and girls want to marry you. All that makes you what you are.
You will be more than okay. You will be dangerous dynamite.
Syd, I really pray that you continue to know the hand of God is on you, even when you don't feel him near. Not because I'm telling you, but because the truth IS that the Lord has been with you before one page was ever written in your book.
I pray you know the kind of love that brings the kind of joy that NO one and NO thing can ever destroy. A PASSION eternal, no matter how hot the fire, how small the spark.
Be nineteen and be all the things 19 years has given you. It's a lot.
Today you are nineteen. Last night I tried to write about you on this very blog, but instead I watched the Gilmore Girls re-boot. (Just the part about Richard's funeral, because the look Lorelai has on her face as she is trying to let go, standing in the shade of a giant tree, staring at the casket, is me. Letting go of you. Not that you're dead. But still.)
I was going to write this beautiful image of you paddling away in a canoe from the bay of Lake Michigan headed to Pebble Beach, while I stood on the end of the pier watching you go and always waiting for your return. This is what my grandfather did for me, whenever your Uncle Tim and I packed up some pbj's and struck out for an adventure. I think if my grandpa could have attached a thread from his windbreaker sleeve to my orange life preserver, he would have done it.
But instead of writing that, I drank a little chocolate tequila. I looked at pictures of you and your cousin Davielle when you were small, holding chickens. I texted it to you. Then told myself not to text you.
Letting go is a dumb phrase and I really don't like it. I want to come downstairs late at night to find the house dark, except for the light in the pantry where I will find you standing silently with a spoon as you help yourself to some peanut butter. I want to hear your loud laugh at inappropriate times, like when I'm crying during Friends (you get that from your father.) I want to watch you stare at Ben across the dinner table as you think of what to say to provoke him, to get him to open his mouth.
Sometimes I think you are wiser than me. But it doesn't stop me from getting angry when I feel you think you know it all.
This is the fight I have, to stay present in your life from the far shore. As the quote kind of goes, a ship is no good when it stays safe in the harbor. I will be standing sure on the pier if you need me, but not to cast out a line. It will be to cheer you on, in that Good-Will-Hunting way. I want to walk out on that pier and be really happy when I see the canoe is no longer there.
Here's the thing: I really believe in you. So while some parents may fret that their Christian son is going to a secular college and contemplating tattoos and did get his ears pierced, I am hopefully optimistic you will be okay. This is my way of telling the grandparents that you got your ears pierced, by the way.
When some people tell me art majors graduate to live in their parents' basements, I don't let it concern me. Because I know the talent you have, the drive you have, the brain you have, and the stellar upbringing you have had, by way more than just your dad and I. You have had grandparents pour into you, aunts, uncles, cousins, youth leaders, pastors, therapists, teachers, friends' mothers, and your friends. It takes a village. Oh, and one badly behaved dog to teach you patience. Oh, and you're missing some fingers and have a killer smile and girls want to marry you. All that makes you what you are.
You will be more than okay. You will be dangerous dynamite.
Syd, I really pray that you continue to know the hand of God is on you, even when you don't feel him near. Not because I'm telling you, but because the truth IS that the Lord has been with you before one page was ever written in your book.
I pray you know the kind of love that brings the kind of joy that NO one and NO thing can ever destroy. A PASSION eternal, no matter how hot the fire, how small the spark.
Be nineteen and be all the things 19 years has given you. It's a lot.