My oldest daughter, Torri, (then 17) got her license in October. Up to that point, I had been the one sitting next to her in the passenger seat as she “practiced” her driving. But then that flimsy little piece of plastic came along and deemed her capable of going it alone. And that she did. From my kitchen window I watched as she drove away that first time. No one beside her and nothing but the wide open road to show her the way. It reminded me of the first time I left her at preschool–a rainbow painted on the side of that building, a promise for us faint-of-heart first timers.
I was standing in my kitchen again today when the call came. Her voice cracked on the other end of the line. Mom? My heart drops at the ache in her tone. The tremor. I wait.
I got in an accident.
I exhale because at least it was her doing the dialing. The talking. This is a good sign.
A jumble of words are coming over the line, frantic and broken but I shush her. Torri. Torri! I demand of her: are you ok?
I close my eyes and manage an instant prayer. Thank you, Lord.
As we drive the thirty + minutes to get to where she is I have time to think of all the things that didn’t come to pass. And I don’t care how much it costs because it’s only money. I only care that the call that came was one I can live with.
They grow up. Their hearts yearn to go. They become able and they do. They think they’re on their own out there and maybe physically it’s the truth but what they don’t know is that from the very start–I mean the instant that second line on the pregnancy test appeared–they’ve had us right there all the while.
With each child to pass through me I’ve lost a piece of my very heart. The pieces stay close by for a time but then little by little they go walking and then running and eventually zooming away in a little green bug. There is no choice but to–prayerfully–watch as they go.
She’s fine. I rest on that. In Him.
*Here I am. Just writing.*