Happy Easter. I wrote this post in April of 2014 when I still had a Mom, but my Dad had passed back in 1999. Now they both are gone and today for the first time ever, many will be forced to face the idea that they may never see or hold there parents ever again and are not allowed to spend this holiday with them. That must be so incredibly painful for you, and if you are one of those folks, I am very sorry. I hope these words find a place in your heart and help you and your parents come together, if just in a "virtual way" during this pandemic, on this holy day.
Easter is a time of family. And now in a time when we question the leadership of our parents on a national level, while we simultaneously worry about their health and safety, as well as the health and safety of our families, I thought this piece might help you see a different side to the the dilemma.
May the Lord's peace find your heart this Easter morning. Thanks for reading.
(Big Thanks to my wife for transcribing this for me. We found a copy of this piece in some papers that belonged to my Mom as we were cleaning out the house the other day and she thought I should share it again. Thank you Jennifer and I love you.)
Published originally on April 4, 2014 at The Oceanus Initiative by Chris German
Hi Adult Parent-
It's not that I write to offend you or call you old - you're not. In fact, much the same way you will always see your little boy or girl in the eyes of the man or woman that stands before you,
I will always see the young man or woman who first welcomed me to the world in you eyes.
It is rather I write about how much I love you and see the fear in your eyes about the days ahead.
I know you're scared. When you saw your first gray hair, you laughed. The first time your gate slowed beyond mine, you winced in pain. But the first time you saw your mortality in the face of my youth, that was the day you ceased to look at me as your child and saw me instead as a sign of your end.
I don't want you to go. Never. I envision the cold days with my spouse, the frightened nights with my kids, the questioning events of my future, to always be fixed by your calm words, your wise turn of phrase or your comforting hug, your sage advice. But I know, those days are numbered.
I cherish each one, even if I fail to admit it in those times of ire and argument. You're too to young to be old, but too old to be young. I am just a reminder now, not of the world that you bore, but the world that will end. Some day. And I hate it.
But much the same way my days will end, yours will end too, and while I won't admit it, I am scared of the day that will come. You fail to admit it too - but it will come.
And then I will forever lose the one touch stone I knew, the one warm place I had to land, and the one person who always loved me, no matter when, no matter what. You will go.
And when you do go, I hope you go to a place where you see the ones you loved most. Those who went before you. I hope you will be given the knowledge that you did right, even when it felt wrong. I hope you grew into the one you were supposed to be, while you raised the one you could only hope one day would be better than you ever hoped for yourself.
You raised a child who is ready to take your lead. Live in this world and lead this next generation. You gave all you had and did all you could, to make your legacy grand and I will do my best to continue it's progress.
But at that time, you will be gone, so I write to you now - while you're here to hear and ready to respond. I love you. I love your failings and your failures. You're my parent.
I love that you need me to now watch over you, because you always watched over me. I love you for all that you did to make sure I could be here now to do for you. It is my job as a child to care for my parent, when always my parent cared for me. But I hate that now, that when I get to show you the breadth of my love, we count the days til I will last see you. I love you, my parent. You love me too, I know. Let's use this time we have left, wisely.
Easter is a time of family. And now in a time when we question the leadership of our parents on a national level, while we simultaneously worry about their health and safety, as well as the health and safety of our families, I thought this piece might help you see a different side to the the dilemma.
May the Lord's peace find your heart this Easter morning. Thanks for reading.
(Big Thanks to my wife for transcribing this for me. We found a copy of this piece in some papers that belonged to my Mom as we were cleaning out the house the other day and she thought I should share it again. Thank you Jennifer and I love you.)
Published originally on April 4, 2014 at The Oceanus Initiative by Chris German
Hi Adult Parent-
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| My Mom, Beverly and Me on her last Easter Morning in 2016 |
It's not that I write to offend you or call you old - you're not. In fact, much the same way you will always see your little boy or girl in the eyes of the man or woman that stands before you,
I will always see the young man or woman who first welcomed me to the world in you eyes.
It is rather I write about how much I love you and see the fear in your eyes about the days ahead.
I know you're scared. When you saw your first gray hair, you laughed. The first time your gate slowed beyond mine, you winced in pain. But the first time you saw your mortality in the face of my youth, that was the day you ceased to look at me as your child and saw me instead as a sign of your end.
I don't want you to go. Never. I envision the cold days with my spouse, the frightened nights with my kids, the questioning events of my future, to always be fixed by your calm words, your wise turn of phrase or your comforting hug, your sage advice. But I know, those days are numbered.
I cherish each one, even if I fail to admit it in those times of ire and argument. You're too to young to be old, but too old to be young. I am just a reminder now, not of the world that you bore, but the world that will end. Some day. And I hate it.
But much the same way my days will end, yours will end too, and while I won't admit it, I am scared of the day that will come. You fail to admit it too - but it will come.
And then I will forever lose the one touch stone I knew, the one warm place I had to land, and the one person who always loved me, no matter when, no matter what. You will go.
And when you do go, I hope you go to a place where you see the ones you loved most. Those who went before you. I hope you will be given the knowledge that you did right, even when it felt wrong. I hope you grew into the one you were supposed to be, while you raised the one you could only hope one day would be better than you ever hoped for yourself.
You raised a child who is ready to take your lead. Live in this world and lead this next generation. You gave all you had and did all you could, to make your legacy grand and I will do my best to continue it's progress.
But at that time, you will be gone, so I write to you now - while you're here to hear and ready to respond. I love you. I love your failings and your failures. You're my parent.
I love that you need me to now watch over you, because you always watched over me. I love you for all that you did to make sure I could be here now to do for you. It is my job as a child to care for my parent, when always my parent cared for me. But I hate that now, that when I get to show you the breadth of my love, we count the days til I will last see you. I love you, my parent. You love me too, I know. Let's use this time we have left, wisely.
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