The Open Door - A Mother's View

I stood silently as I watched her go through the security check point.  There was so much to say, but I could only hope she knew my heart.  She wasn’t a little girl anymore; yet, she was still my little girl.  She carried herself with a quiet confidence that I new held at least a bit of false bravado as part of the recipe.  Others would not know this about her.  What would she do without us?

What would we do without her?  Only God knew.  God knew.

If she knew I was watching, waiting for her to clear security and disappear from view, she hid it; she never looked back.  I wasn’t hurt; I knew her too well.  She needed to have it like this – a quick good-bye with tears held in check.  Well, almost in check.  I tried; for her sake, I really did try.  I couldn’t quite succeed, but I didn’t worry too much about it; she knew me too well to think a few tears wouldn’t escape the confines of my lashes – the clutches of my will.

She knew I needed to have it like this – to have a trace of my emotions slip through.

I continued watching as she slipped off her shoes, almost forgot to remove her watch, placed her backpack on the conveyor belt, removed her lap-top from its case and placed it in a separate basket, and stepped into the dreaded x-ray machine, raising her arms over her head as it scanned.  She did it like a pro – as if she had done it a myriad of times before…which of course, she had.  Where had the little girl gone who needed us to tell her how to do this?  She was gone…

…and yet, somehow not gone.

I walked to where I would be able to see her pass the final barrier that protected the travelers from the onlookers – the stayers.  I could not turn away; I needed to keep my gaze on her until she slipped irrevocably from my sight, from my reach.  I let the tears fall as she stepped into the corridor and purposefully walked, head held high and back rigid, through the open door.

Through the open door.

I knew the significance of that.  I wondered if she thought about it, too.  I can’t imagine her not; it was she who had taught it to me.  She disappeared from sight, and yet I stood a moment longer as if her presence had not yet totally slipped from the room and I was waiting for the last vestiges of her to dissipate. My mother’s heart had not changed, but in that moment my role changed drastically and permanently.  I felt it keenly, and it cut deeply.  She was leaving me.

I was leaving her.

Eight thousand miles and four years would not provide much opportunity to actively be a part of her life, but it couldn’t change who I was…who she was…who we were together.  I closed my eyes as her father took my hand and led me away.

Her FATHER took my hand and led me away.

They wrapped their arms around me to love me, to comfort me, to support me.  We approached the airport exit and he reached to gentlemanly open the door for me.  He said no words with his lips, but through his eyes his heart spoke volumes.  “I know,” it said to me. “I know.  I feel it, too.  It hurts, but we’ll get through this together.  She’ll be okay.”

HE said no audible words, but through my spirit HE whispered directly to my heart.

“It’s okay, I’ve got her,” HE said to me.  “I love her even more than you do.  She was mine before she was yours; I will never leave her or forsake her – or you. Trust ME.”  And I knew…

...as they opened the door...and I walked through...

...she hadn't walked through that door alone.