First Time Is The Hardest

As we traveled I35 from Kansas City to Saint Paul, I remembered the first time. Phil, Rebecca, and I were on that highway taking Blaise, my son, to Macalester College. We had been up most of the night meticulously checking off recently purchased supplies from the suggested needs list. There had been piles of paper, boxes and stuff underfoot. We were excited with thoughts of what this new road held for Blaise and us and at the same time filled with the dread of separation. That was four year ago--four years since we moved Blaise into a freshman dorm with other scarred boys and girls, four years since we sat in that gym overlooking 400 plus empty chairs--one for each new student, ears bent toward the mournful sound of bagpipes as the players led our children in like piped pipers to a place where they would be forever changed. It was not easy batting away tears that swelled involuntarily into my eyes nor battling the loneliness that settled upon me even as I sat in a nearby hotel. We left a boy in a tiny room; he returned a matured, confident young man-- unfolding, reaching, searching for ...God knows what. Discovery is the journey!

One hour outside of Saint Paul, I realized it was somewhat different this time. Yeah, the excitement was there and a little sadness too at the realization that we had planned his journey thus far but now, four years later, the road taken or not taken is up to him. Will he plan his journey well or simply drift?