There are some moments in life that you know are coming for years, but somehow knowing they are coming does absolutely nothing to prepare you for them.
This week has been one of those moments for April and me.
Yesterday, we packed everything up and headed toward Banner Elk, North Carolina, to take our daughter, Savannah Goode, to Lees-McRae University for the beginning of her freshman year.
Even typing those words feels strange.
Our daughter is a college freshman.
Savannah is beginning this new chapter as an honors student, and April and I have spent our time helping her move into her freshman dorm, carrying boxes, arranging things, making trips back and forth, figuring out what goes where, and doing everything parents do when they are trying to make a small college room feel a little more like home.
But somewhere between unloading the car, setting up the room, and watching Savannah begin to settle into this new place, something hit me.
We aren't simply moving our daughter into a dorm.
We are watching her step into a life that April and I have spent eighteen years preparing her to live.
And wow.
What an emotional roller coaster.
Mom Cries. Dad Finds Something to Carry.
April's emotions tend to be more visible than mine.
When she is emotional, you usually know it.
I tend to internalize things.
I find another box to carry.
I check the car.
I straighten something that probably doesn't need straightening.
I ask Savannah whether she needs anything.
I make a joke.
I find another job.
Anything to stay occupied.
Then I save the really ugly crying for when nobody is around.
Well, almost nobody.
There are always Cooper, Cheeto, and Casper, our three cats.
They have become my unofficial emotional-support committee.
Fortunately, they don't ask many questions.
They also haven't told anyone about Dad's ugly crying yet.
And I appreciate that.
Eighteen Years Preparing for a Day You Don't Want to Come
Parenting has a strange irony to it.
From the time our children are born, we are preparing them to leave us.
We teach them to walk so one day they can walk without holding our hand.
We teach them to think so they can eventually make decisions without asking us what to do.
We teach them responsibility so they can take care of themselves.
We teach them to drive—and then immediately wonder why we ever thought that was a good idea.
We teach them about God, faith, right and wrong, relationships, work, disappointment, forgiveness, success, failure, and getting back up after life knocks you down.
And then comes the day when all that teaching is supposed to become living.
Suddenly, the lessons are no longer theoretical.
Your child steps out the door.
And you realize:
Now I have to trust what we taught her.
Even more importantly, I have to trust the God we taught her to follow.
One verse that keeps coming back to me is Proverbs 22:6:
“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.”
Like every Christian parent, April and I know that raising a child in a Christian home does not mean we can control every decision she will ever make.
Faith cannot simply be inherited.
At some point, the faith of Mom and Dad has to become the faith of the child.
There comes a time when the convictions she heard about at home have to become convictions she chooses for herself.
That is one of my prayers for Savannah now.
Lord, let the things we tried to teach her take root.
Let Scripture come alive in her life.
Let the faith we talked about around our home become a faith she owns for herself.
Let what we planted be watered by Your Spirit.
“As for Me and My House…”
There is another passage that has meant a great deal to our family over the years.
Joshua stood before Israel and declared:
“As for me and my house, we will serve the LORD.”
— Joshua 24:15
April and I haven't lived that perfectly.
No family does.
We have made mistakes.
I have made mistakes.
There are conversations I wish I had handled differently, days when I could have been more patient, moments when ministry or work probably received attention that my family deserved instead.
But through it all, Joshua 24:15 has represented what we wanted our home to be.
As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.
Not merely on Sunday.
Not simply because Dad happens to be a pastor.
Not because it looks good.
But because Jesus Christ is the foundation upon which we wanted our family built.
Now comes another stage of living that verse.
For eighteen years, Savannah has lived under our roof.
Now she is living in a college dorm.
The address changes.
The responsibility changes.
The freedom changes.
But our prayer doesn't.
Lord, may she continue to choose You.
Love Must Sometimes Let Go
I've thought about an old song several times during this experience.
.38 Special called it “Hold On Loosely.”
I'm certainly not suggesting they wrote the song as a parenting manual.
But there is something about that phrase that describes what I am learning right now.
Hold on loosely.
As parents, our instinct is to hold tightly.
We want to protect.
We want to prevent mistakes.
We want to save our children from pain.
We want to make the bad decision for them before they ever get the opportunity to make it themselves.
Sometimes we would like to put them in bubble wrap until they're about 35.
But that's not how life works.
And that's not really love.
There comes a time when love must be willing to let go.
Not stop loving.
Not stop caring.
Not stop praying.
Not stop being available.
Just loosen the grip.
There is a difference between abandoning someone and releasing someone.
We aren't abandoning Savannah.
We are releasing her into the next season God has prepared for her.
And maybe Christian parenting eventually becomes exactly that:
Taking the hands we have held so tightly and placing them into the hands of God.
So Proud of the Young Woman She Has Become
The sadness of this moment shouldn't overshadow something else.
I am incredibly proud of Savannah.
Not just because she graduated.
Not just because she was accepted to college.
Not just because she is entering the honors program at Lees-McRae.
Those are wonderful accomplishments, and they should be celebrated.
But April and I are even more proud of who she is becoming.
Savannah has a desire to be faithful to the Lord.
She isn't the loudest person in the room.
She doesn't need to be.
She possesses a quietness that people are naturally drawn toward.
I've watched her with friends who were nervous, anxious, upset, or overwhelmed.
Savannah often becomes the calm presence in the middle of all of it.
She doesn't need to make a speech.
She doesn't need to demand everyone's attention.
She is simply there.
Calm.
Steady.
Listening.
Present.
And people are attracted to that.
I believe that is a form of leadership we don't talk about enough.
The world often defines leadership by the loudest voice, the biggest personality, or the person standing at the front.
But sometimes leadership looks like being the one person in the room whose presence makes everyone else feel a little safer.
That's Savannah.
Quiet leadership.
And I pray God will use that quality in ways she cannot possibly see yet.
Animals, Compassion, and Dad's Dangerous Sense of Humor
Savannah has also always had a love for animals.
There is something about caring for animals that reveals part of a person's heart.
Animals cannot give you status.
They cannot advance your career.
They cannot repay you for your kindness.
You care for them because they need care.
And Savannah has that compassion.
I hope she never loses it.
Unfortunately, she inherited something else from me too.
My sense of humor.
This concerns me greatly.
A child inheriting her father's sense of humor should probably have resulted in some type of warning label being attached to her birth certificate.
April has had to live with me all these years.
Now the world gets Savannah.
I apologize in advance.
But secretly, I love it.
There are times when something comes out of her mouth and I immediately recognize exactly where it came from.
And I think, Yep. That's my daughter.
And Then There Is Noah
Of course, Savannah leaving doesn't quite make April and me empty nesters yet.
Our son, Noah, is 22, and for now he is still at home with us.
So Noah, congratulations.
You are currently the only remaining child in the house.
No pressure.
But even that reminds me how quickly the seasons of life change.
There was a time when both children were little.
The house was busy.
Schedules were full.
There was always somewhere to go, something to do, somebody who needed something, and probably something that needed cleaning up.
At times those years seemed like they would last forever.
They didn't.
They never do.
That's a lesson I wish every young parent could really understand.
The sleepless nights end.
The diapers end.
The elementary school years end.
The teenage years end.
The high school graduation comes.
And eventually you're standing in a college dorm room wondering how eighteen years disappeared so quickly.
The View From the Other Side of Parenting
Maybe this is part of parenting nobody can explain to you until you experience it.
When our children are little, we pray:
“Lord, help me raise them.”
Then eventually the prayer changes.
“Lord, help me release them.”
When they are little, we say:
“Lord, keep them close to me.”
Later we say:
“Lord, keep them close to You.”
That's where April and I are now.
Savannah will face things we cannot prevent.
She will meet people we have never met.
She will encounter ideas we cannot screen beforehand.
She will make decisions without us standing beside her.
There will be moments of incredible joy.
There will probably be heartbreak.
There will be victories.
There will be mistakes.
There will be days when everything seems clear and others when she has no idea what she is supposed to do next.
And Dad won't always be there to fix it.
Maybe Dad isn't supposed to.
My role is changing.
I am learning that being the father of an adult daughter means being close enough that she knows she can always call, but far enough away that she learns she can stand.
That's difficult.
But it's necessary.
Our Prayer for Savannah
More than anything else, our prayer is simple.
God, keep Your hand upon our daughter.
Guide her.
Protect her.
Give her wisdom.
Surround her with good friends.
Put godly influences in her life.
Give her discernment when something isn't right.
When she is lonely, remind her she isn't alone.
When she succeeds, keep her humble.
When she fails, remind her that failure isn't final.
When she doesn't know what direction to take, make her sensitive to Your voice.
When she is afraid, give her courage.
When others around her are anxious, continue using that calm spirit You have given her.
Protect her heart.
Protect her mind.
Protect her body.
And above everything else, draw her continually closer to Jesus Christ.
Proverbs 3:5–6 has been preached from pulpits countless times, including mine:
“Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.”
Now I'm praying those words over my daughter.
Lord, direct her path.
Because her father can't.
And perhaps that is one of the greatest spiritual lessons in this entire experience.
I was never really the one directing her path in the first place.
God was.
Soon We Will Drive Away
Eventually, everything will be unpacked.
The dorm room will be arranged.
There won't be another shelf to fix or another box to carry.
There will come that moment when April and I have to get into the car.
And Savannah won't.
I already know that drive home is going to feel different.
There will be one fewer person around the house.
One fewer voice.
One fewer schedule to think about.
One empty bedroom.
And probably three cats wondering why Dad is suddenly paying them so much attention.
But I also know something else.
This isn't an ending.
It is a beginning.
It is the beginning of Savannah discovering more fully who God has created her to be.
It is the beginning of new friendships.
New experiences.
New responsibilities.
New opportunities.
New challenges.
New memories.
And yes, probably a few phone calls home that begin with:
“Dad, I have a question…”
I hope there are a lot of those.
To My Daughter
Savannah, if you ever read this, there are some things your dad wants you to know.
I am so very proud of you.
Not simply because of what you have accomplished, but because of who you are.
Your quiet spirit is not weakness.
It's one of your strengths.
Your compassion matters.
Your kindness matters.
Your ability to remain calm when others are anxious matters.
Your faith matters.
Keep loving animals.
Keep loving people.
Keep that strange Goode sense of humor—although please use it responsibly.
Work hard.
Learn everything you can.
Make friends.
Try new things.
Make memories.
Call your mother.
And occasionally remember that there is another parent who would enjoy hearing from you too.
But most importantly:
Walk with Jesus.
When everybody around you is going one direction and you know God is calling you another, follow Him.
When you're successful, thank Him.
When you're hurting, run toward Him.
When you don't understand what He's doing, trust Him.
Your mother and I have spent eighteen years trying to prepare you for this moment.
Apparently, we should have spent a little more time preparing ourselves.
We're working on it.
Hold On Loosely
Maybe that's what this season is really teaching me.
Love doesn't always hold tighter.
Sometimes love loosens its grip.
Love trusts.
Love releases.
Love watches someone walk away and quietly whispers:
“God, she's Yours.”
April and I will always be Mom and Dad.
North Carolina mountains and a college dorm room can't change that.
But now we get the privilege of watching from a slightly greater distance as Savannah writes the next chapter of her life.
So go, Savannah.
Learn.
Grow.
Laugh.
Serve.
Love.
Follow Christ.
Become everything God has created you to become.
We'll be right here.
Cheering.
Praying.
Probably worrying more than we should.
And occasionally crying.
April may do hers where everybody can see it.
Dad will probably wait until he's alone with Cooper, Cheeto, and Casper.
But either way, those tears are there for the same reason.
Sometimes loving someone deeply means trusting God enough to let them go.
And maybe the best way for a father to hold onto his daughter now...
is to hold on loosely and hold onto God tightly.
