If your goodbye wave pulls on your heartstrings, it’s likely because someone you love is leaving. The feeling is reminiscent of Shakespeare’s famed line, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
I’m not sure when I started the little ritual. Whenever the kids, now grown, leave, I follow them out the door, waving goodbye as they drive away. When my two oldest grandkids are with them, they sometimes beg me to race them as they drive away with their mom and dad. “On your mark, get set, go,” I announce, like the starter at a track meet. Then I run alongside the car while my wife shakes her head, warning me not to stumble and fall. Then I stand still and wave.
When my daughter, Madi, pops in for a quick “hello,” I still walk out, stand there, wave, and watch.
And I say a silent prayer for each of my children as they disappear, even when it’s Mary leaving the airport. For all of them, it’s the same prayer each time.
When they go away for more than a day or two, I linger a little longer with my silent goodbye. Like this past weekend, David, Kayla, and baby Stella were here for the weekend, and I won’t see them for weeks. It was a special treat for Lori and me to have all of them (except for our oldest, Mary, in New York City) with us. I stood until David’s truck disappeared over that last little rise in the road.
And I repeated my little prayer.
I believe it’s a common desire among parents to hang on, grasping the kids, drawing them in, and, if they are young enough, snuggling them one last time. Saying bye is part of blessing them as they go, which is why it’s “goodbye,” a contraction of the phrase,“ God be with you.”
That wave is my way of watching my blessing travel with them, accompanying them, a part of me, which also massages my emotional ache, that longing to keep them just a little longer. It is possible to hold on too long, burdening them with guilt for flying away.
Goodbyes are a necessary part of life. Letting them leave is an act of faith, trusting God for richer blessings as they exit, even as we long for their return.
It can also be a sacrifice for the parent willing to relinquish control. I’m grateful my love for my children has not been tested in the way Nels Ferre’s mother was.
She also happens to be the source of my prayer, the one I say when I wave goodbye to my kids.
Nels Ferre was an American theologian who emigrated to the United States when he was 13.
Before emigrating to the States, Nels lived with his family in Sweden, who could not afford to educate their children. He had an aunt and uncle in the United States who were childless. They wrote to Nels parents and offered to raise him as their own and give him a good education. The parents accepted.
It was a heart-wrenching experience for a boy of 13 to be taken from his land and family, perhaps never to see them again, and to go to a new country with virtual strangers. Nels was close to his mother, and he longed for a word from her to sustain him. Throughout the day before he was to catch the ship, his mother was silent. He yearned for a word through supper, but there was only silence. After supper, the same. Nels cried himself to sleep. The next morning at breakfast, his mom was still unable to speak. On the way to the village, there was no sound from her. Finally, as the train moved out of the station, Nels’ last glimpse of his mother was one he never forgot: with tears streaming down her cheeks she held a scrawled note for him to read: “Remember Jesus most of all.”
His mother’s message pointed him to the one who would be most important in molding his life. And her sacrifice did afford Nels the opportunity for an education. He earned an undergraduate degree from Boston University and a Ph.D. from Harvard.
I read that story years ago and made her words my prayer. And so, I wave goodbye, praying they will remember Jesus most of all.
And hoping they will return soon.