Today, my nineteen year old daughter Miranda should arrive in Uruguay. She’s been on my mind since the moment she left. And she left on Wednesday. Today is Friday. Yes, it’s taken this long. She flew to Dallas and from Dallas to Miami. And that’s where things went south—figuratively, unfortunately not literally, as they were supposed to. Because of a delayed flight, Miranda had to spend the night in Miami—she arrived at her hotel at 4:30 a.m. The next flight to Montevideo wasn’t until mid-night, giving her an entire day at the Miami airport.
She’s flown alone before, but never internationally. Of course, my mother’s heart wanted to be there with her. As soon as I learned of her delay in Dallas, I wanted to join her, to walk her through all the long lines, to show her all the hoops that airports can try and make you jump through, and to make sure that her unexpected hotel room in Miami was a safe place to stay.
But I couldn’t do that. All I could do was fret from my corner of the world while she tried to navigate through hers.
Kahlil Gibran wrote:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.