Someone once noted that nowhere else can the pendulum-like extremes of happiness and sorrow be seen than at an airport. There is a lot of truth in that observation as one can watch the reunions take place just past security as loved ones or friends are reunited. The other end of the spectrum is equally true as long embraces and lingering goodbyes accompany those departing.
This past Sunday morning I experienced both ends of those extremes as well as another dimension for which I was not prepared. For weeks, we have been planning to send our 15-year-old son, Kavan, to Illinois, for a summer internship with my wife’s family there. Kavan will be working with the family business doing both catering and sanitation engineering, a.k.a. working on the garbage route! We are both proud and excited for him to learn the business side of things and grateful to family for integrating him into the business for the coming weeks. On the other hand, it is already odd not having him here.
Despite our planning and discussions with Kavan, the realization hit me a few days before his departure when I realized that his leaving is merely a preparatory exercise for his ultimate launch from home. And even though that is still a couple years from now, it dawns on me that time will slip through our fingers as it always does, and Kavan will leave home as an adult.
I felt compelled to alter my schedule for the day the Friday before he left in order to take Kavan to lunch and shopping for a few last-minute items. A moment of panic overcame me when I realized that despite my effort, I would not get to spend as much time with Kavan as I wanted. In less than 48 hours he would be gone. But the real panic was realizing the probability of feeling that same way two years from now. How could I keep that from happening? I felt guilt for both not having spent more time with my son as well as being distracted in the moments that we did have.
Our conversation on the way to the airport Sunday morning was meaningful. It was more than endearing as Kavan thanked me for our lunch together, clearly indicating that our time together was valuable to him as well, at least that was my interpretation. I was able to escort Kavan through the airport and to his gate. I waited for his group to be called and we exchanged what for us is a normal expression of father and son affection. I watched as he made his way past the ticket counter and disappeared down the hallway. I turned and walked away both proud and somewhat sad.
The Honolulu airport is an open-air facility and as I crossed the walkway heading back to security I was overcome with emotion. I stopped and noticed Kavan’s plane just outside to my right. The engines were warming up and the smell of jet fuel was pungent. Why was this so hard? After all, the boy was not leaving for good. In fact, if anything I should be jealous that he is going to spend the summer with family. And while I expect he will work hard; he will grow and learn in wonderful ways.
And then it hit me. In the days leading up to Kavan’s departure I found myself easily agitated. Even Lori noted that I seemed “on edge.” Truthfully, I was angry and did not know why. But now I did. In a moment watching my soon to be adult son get on an airplane, I realized that I have been robbed of the most precious commodity with him: Time. My mind flooded with opportunities and occasions that I simply was not able to give to him the time that I wanted, and that he needed. And I was angry. I was hurt. I wanted to go back, but I could not.
I have often said that Kaydan takes 80% of our time, attention, and energy when he is awake. The time he demands is not optional and does not lend itself to focusing attention on other things, no matter how important those other things, or people are. And in this moment, I felt that I had been robbed of irreplaceable time with my eldest son. As he disappeared onto the plane, all the time lost over the last nine years, or rather time spent elsewhere, seemed to go with him. It was an awful moment.
At the end of the day, I am extremely grateful for the moments that I was blessed to share with Kavan just a few days ago. I am also thankful that standing on a bridgeway I was able to confront and name my anger. Most of all, I am thankful that God was in that moment to shoulder my anger as well. He is the God of comfort. We do not walk alone. Regardless of our circumstances, regardless of whether or not you walk in the special needs world, God is an ever-present help in our time of need, in our best moments and our worst.
I may not be able to change how demanding Kaydan is as it relates to time, but I can choose to be attuned to the time that I do have. And whether that is when Kavan returns home later this summer or the next time my wife and I have a moment to savor, I, and all of us for that matter, do well to surrender all our time for God’s good and noble purposes in our lives. A recent version of Ephesians 5:16 puts it this way, “Make the most of every living and breathing moment because these are evil times” (Voice Translation).
Human nature often draws us into the trap of comparison. I too, fall prey to that trap. It is not fair that other couples and families have more time with each other because they do not have a special needs child. It is not fair that Kaydan sometimes takes 20-30 minutes to get out of the van in the school drop-off line, while other typical kids hop out with the car barely stopping and without fanfare. None of this is fair, at least in terms of the quantity of time. But the quality of time that any of us have is equitable across the board, and that is where we all have control and a choice to make. Time waits for no one, as the saying goes, but my choice is to make the time that I have count. Time has meaning and purpose, and how we embrace it is up to us.
As always, thanks for your continued and prayerful support. Enjoy the time you have with your family, and above all, I pray your time is meaningful.
Brad