July 26: Saints Joachim and Anne

Yesterday, I dropped my daughter off at a church camp for a week-long stay.  It's a facility owned and run by the district of the United Methodist Church.  My wife attended the camp when she was a girl.  It's a gorgeous complex of cabins located near the shores of beautiful lake, and my daughter was completely stoked to be there.  I use the term "stoked" because I can't really think of another, more dignified term to describe her excitement.  It's the first time she's been away from home for an extended period of time without the supervision of some relative.  It's definitely the longest time I've ever gone without seeing or speaking to her since she was born.

So the drop-off/registration time was 2 p.m. yesterday (Sunday).  I spent most of Saturday night packing her suitcase, hunting for her sleeping bag, and filling out permission slips and medical forms.  I also took the opportunity to address several envelopes for her to use to write home during the week.  When I put the envelopes and stamps in her suitcase, I gave her strict instructions:  "You have to write us one letter a day or you'll break my heart."  That may violate a few parenting rules, but I really don't care.

My daughter was not very clingy as we waited to get her checked in.  In fact, she ran off a couple of times to do some exploring with an older cousin of hers.  In line, she kept saying, "How much longer?" over and over, as if the presence of her mother and father was a mosquito she wanted to swat into oblivion.  And, when we finally got her cabin assignment, she ran back to the car and started unloading her bags before I could even remember where I parked.

When we reached her cabin, she quickly picked out her bunk and made her bed, spreading out her sleeping bag neatly.  When she was done arranging her pillow, she looked up at me and said, "Now what?"

"Now you wait until everyone in your cabin is here," I said.  "And then your counselor will tell you what to do."

My daughter leaned back in her bunk, arms behind her head, and smiled.  "Okay, bye."

I kissed and hugged her.  My wife kissed and hugged her.  Then...we left.

No tears.  No looks of abject terror.  No moments of uncertainty at all.  At least not from my daughter.

As I drove away from the camp, I could feel melancholy settling on my shoulders.  I had just entered into a new phase of fatherhood, a phase of letting go.  As the miles between my daughter and me increased, I began to realize that my little girl wasn't so little any more.  (She revels in telling me that on her next birthday, she will officially be a "tweenager.")

When I got back home, I was highly aware of small things that reminded me of her.  Socks that she left balled up on the floor.  A pink grass hula skirt she danced in before she went to bed last night.  A pen with a furry cap sitting on the kitchen table.  I didn't want to let those objects effect me the way they did.  But I couldn't help it.  Each object felt like a death, a little piece of lost childhood I had to fold into a paper boat and launch into the ocean.

I know I'm being melodramatic.  I know a lot of you are rolling your eyes and laughing at me.  I had a friend with grown children tell me yesterday, "You gotta let go some time, dad."  That didn't help.

Today's saints are Joachim and Anne, the father and mother of the Virgin Mary.  The Gospels say nothing about the parents of Mary; the Gospels don't even name them.  However, Anne and Joachim  have been celebrated and honored in Eastern Churches since the earliest Christian times.  Mary's mom and dad would understand my emotions regarding my daughter.  Mary was around 13, only four years older than my daughter, when she became pregnant with Jesus.  I can almost imagine the conversation Mary had with Joachim and Anne over that.  I can certainly imagine Joachim's reaction--fear, heartbreak, loss, sorrow.  Talk about losing your little girl in a really big way.  I'm sure, since they are saints, that Joachim and Anne handled the situation a lot better than I would have.

Here I sit.  My daughter has been at camp less than 24 hours, and I have already mailed her a three-page letter.  I miss her.  I miss the pink princess in the crib.  I miss the kindergartner with her finger painting.  I miss the four-year old who sat in my lap and listened to me read Charlotte's Web.  I'm happy she's independent and confident, but I want her to still need me.  The way Jesus needed Mary.  Mary needed Joachim and Anne.

I want her to need me as much as I need her.