God gave us memories that
we might have roses in December.

SIR JAMES M. BARRIE

Our children have reached the age where they are moving out one by one, sometimes closing the door, and often returning to raid the fridge. It couldn’t happen fast enough for me. The latest to go is our daughter, Rachael, who stole my heart eighteen years ago. She is graduating from a Christian high school with plans to move on, to study in England, then travel the world. She has been threatening to leave since third grade, and it couldn’t come fast enough for me.

She has been eating our food, driving our car, and keeping us up late most nights. Years ago she left her initials on our dryer and carved OINK! into the arm of my old rocking chair. I noticed it while I was snacking late one night.

Rachael has bleached her bedroom carpet with nail polish remover. And painted her walls a shade of pink that causes me to cringe.

I promised her once that the moment she graduated, her furniture would be out on the front lawn. The door would be locked, the keys changed. We’ll have sold the place and moved to Nunavut, where the real estate is cheap.

She laughed. “Oh Dad,” she said. It’s a phrase she’s used a lot through the years.

During the graduation ceremony, Rachael took center stage to deliver the valedictory address. It was the first time in world history a Callaway had experienced such an honor. I ain’t sure why. I thunk the rest of us would have did goodly.

“Our class is going to do amazing things,” she began, throwing half a smile my way. “We are going to be rich. Famous. We are going to turn this world upside down with our impeccable charm and our fashion sense. Yes, we are going to be sports stars, movie stars, and pop stars. We are going to be scholars and musicians and politicians.”

Thankfully she wasn’t finished.

“When I was a little girl,” she continued, “these are the things I thought characterized graduates. Maybe it was all those Disney movies we watched. Happily ever after. Wish upon a star. Dream, dream, dream. But I’m starting to find out those dreams were too small.

“Our motto is ‘To the Ends of the Earth.’ Maybe we chose it because our little town seems like the end of the world. Or maybe it’s because our dream is to stand out from the crowd. To serve Jesus wherever we are. I’ve been reading of missionaries who packed their belongings in a coffin when they left home, fully expecting never to return. Some of us may go to Africa or China and never come back. Others will end up in Moose Jaw, or Seattle, or Cuba. It’s my prayer that we’ll serve Him wherever we are.”

I was sitting near the front, hoping she wouldn’t look my way and see my misty eyes. Was this the little girl I carried and cuddled and loved? All grown up and a preacher too? How could a troubled kid like me grow up to deserve the joy of seeing his daughter follow Jesus? And where did the years go? She’s barely out of her high chair. Last week she was showing us her finger paintings. This week she’ll show us her diploma.

“Those whose goal is to be famous and own lots of stuff are headed for disappointment whether they get it or not,” she is saying. “All around us people are living for themselves. I would like to present to you the rest. This class is going to do amazing things. We are going to be poor, we are going to be ridiculed, mocked, and persecuted. But we will turn this world upside down with the love of God, because His strength is made perfect in weakness.”

That evening more than a hundred people visited our house to celebrate and thank her for her speech. A few were complete strangers who heard there was free food. And after the last one left, I told Ramona of the glorious freedom we would experience when all our children are gone. Of the financial savings. After all, we had to remortgage the house to pay for Rachael’s prom dress. We can enjoy lunch on our own schedule. Dinner, too. We can watch movies that are not in the New Release section. We can take out our hearing aids and play our music loud. Old hymns at deafening levels. No one will burst into the room scowling at us. We can go to bed at 10 p.m. and rest in peace. We can chase each other through the house wearing whatever we please.

Then why the tears as we stood looking at Rachael’s empty room? The Winnie-the-Pooh border. The carpet scarred by nail polish remover. Because there are times I’d gladly trade every carpet in the house for another evening when she sat on my lap begging for one more story, one more piggyback ride, one more hug good night.

Yet our house is far from empty. In every room you’ll find memory marks. In the kitchen, an oak cabinet bears a black scar where the candles on a surprise birthday cake almost brought the house down. We smile when we look at it. Sit in the living room and you can almost smell the popcorn from those nights we popped it onto a clean sheet on the floor. Dig deeply enough and you’ll find old kernels buried in the sofa. Ah, memories.

And so we give thanks to God for what we have. For the wisdom to make memories over making money. To hold these children close while we could. And we’re thankful we have one more child left at home. Sometimes I hear him and his friends lugging guitars and drums and heavy amplifiers down the stairs, carving more memory marks in the walls.

“Oops,” they say.

I’m thankful I’m still young enough to sneak downstairs and pull the main breaker.