Graduation Reflection

I can distinctly remember where she was standing on the front steps of our home when we took the last photo before heading out to deliver her to college. I can remember the order in which we unloaded her stuff once we got there: clothes, shoes, more clothes, more shoes, pillows, decorative lamps, more pillows, and one book bag with a few school supplies, just in case we were confused about our reason for being there. I can remember where we ate dinner together after everything was mostly unpacked and we were ready to “cut her loose.” I can remember how we had barely gotten home that night before she called us in tears to say she was already homesick. I can remember all these things clearly because they just happened last month. 

Well, OK, that’s not really true. All these things seem like they just happened last month. In reality, they happened almost four years ago. Here is what actually happened last month: That young lady, who had not even yet turned 18 when we delivered her to school, walked across a stage, her face beaming, to shake the dean’s hand and receive her diploma. The one who was homesick within a few hours just a few years ago is now a grown woman with a college degree, an army of friends, an identity of her own, and a future that is hers for the making. And this time, the only ones crying are her mom and I.  

As I process the strange mix of emotions this moment brings, there are two things that come immediately to my mind. One – and you will have to excuse me while I take this personal detour – is a tremendous sense of pride. We took her to school in the early fall of 2020, when the world was still emerging from a global pandemic. She and all her classmates had to finish their high school careers at their kitchen tables, while being denied the ever-so-important rite of passage of a graduation ceremony. Then they all had to launch into the next chapter of life, whether it was school or the work force or the military, without the usual face-to-face interactions that are a typical part of most human endeavors. In our daughter’s case, her entire freshman year was carried out from in front of a computer screen. There was no in-person orientation, no gatherings with other students, and no classroom time with professors. Yet, somehow, she and her peers figured out how to make it work. They overcame a challenge that no one alive today has ever faced and prospered despite it all. We hear a lot of talk about how young people today are too fragile. The “snowflake generation” they are sometimes called. There may be a lot about our culture is that is not well, but when I look at this generation of emerging young adults, I see a picture of resilience and persistence. I am extremely proud of what she and her peers have accomplished. It gives me a sense of hopefulness for the future. 

The other, more overwhelming, thing that comes to my mind is a question: How did we get here so fast? I remember dropping her off at college like it was yesterday. I remember bringing her home from the maternity ward at the hospital like it was just the day before that. These last 21 years have flown by faster than I could have imagined was possible. I didn’t notice it as we were busy doing all the things that are necessary to navigate life. My wife and I had careers to manage, ministry to perform, a household to maintain, bills to pay, and two daughters to raise. When you are so focused on the daily minutia of life, you tend not to notice the big picture, or how rapidly that picture is shifting. Then you look up one day and see someone who looks strangely like your own offspring walking across a stage to receive her college diploma, and suddenly that big picture you’ve been overlooking comes into clear view. As a friend once pointed out, we’ve come through a season when the days have been long, and the years have been short. 

Our Lord’s brother tells us shockingly in James 4:14, “What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” It’s not a sentiment unique to James. The Bible is replete with reminders of the brevity of our mortal lives. When speaking at a graveside I often quote a portion of Psalm 103. Verses 13-15 read, “As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust. The life of mortals is like grass, they flourish like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.” I sometimes wonder if I am being too harsh to read those words in the presence of a grieving family, but it is a hard reality to ignore when you are standing next to an open grave. Life rushes by far quicker than we expect. 

But I quickly remind those grieving family members – and by writing this I am trying to remind myself – that Scripture doesn’t tell us such things to scare us. It is simply being honest with us about our human condition. In the span of God’s eternity, our lives are but a blink of the eye or the snap of a fingers or, to use James’ image, a morning mist that quickly burns off as the sun heats the air. That honesty is meant to turn us away from our illusions of permanence and look to the only One who is eternal, and who has invited us to share that eternity with Him through the righteousness of Christ. That is the only meaningful and lasting response to our mortality. 

To be honest, I am grieving a little bit these days as I learn to let go of the season of life that has now passed. I don’t how to feel about having a daughter who is a grown woman, because I’ve never been here before. At the same time, I am strangely looking forward to what this new season has to offer. What this moment is teaching me is to look beyond the quickly changing landscape of my life to see the One who is unchanging. When I do, I can see that this new season will have plenty of wonderful things to offer, even if I don’t yet know what they are. I can also see that this season will likely pass just as quickly as all the others. 

Meanwhile, the God who is Lord over it all will never change. Neither will His love for us. If we remain rooted in Him, then one day all our homesickness will be cured.