Far From Home

People told me that the summer before your oldest leaves for college is “rough.” It’s rough because they want to spend their precious last days at home with their friends, and you want them spending those days with you. It’s rough because you want to help them pick out stuff for their dorm and they really just want your credit card. And it’s rough because they are going to leave and you are going to miss them. Add to that a strong “daddy-daughter” dynamic compounded by people saying multiple times, “and she’s going really far away,” and you can rightly assume that I’ve been a mess since Memorial Day (and that I probably will be a mess at least through Labor Day). This is only the first paragraph, and I’ve cried twice writing this.

The blessing in this season has been the support people have offered to us, from friends at Church and in-laws to good priests and deacons. People have offered prayers and advice, lots of hugs, and promises that “once you know she’s happy, you’ll be happy again.” One of the most supportive entities has been the local Notre Dame club. The Fighting Irish network is fierce, and our local chapter leaders hosted a gathering last week for parents and their soon-to-be freshmen.

At some point they separated the parents from the students and offered us parents a Q&A session. It was more like grief counseling — and it was perfect. Everyone in that backyard was feeling the same thing, and the more senior parents spoke to our aching hearts just as much as they helped with logistics. As we ended the session, a lot of us exchanged cell phone numbers, offering to check in on each other’s children or offer to transport any items that might have been forgotten on a future visit. I doubt we will ever need to use this parent resource, but the promise to keep our eyes open for our children who would be far from home brought this father great peace.

As I sat in a meeting last week, totally distracted by packing, I heard a young dad mention that he went to college in Philly, met his wife, and stayed here. “It’s been 15 years that I’ve lived on a different coast from my family. I’m kind of used to it,” he said. “I bet your folks aren’t,” I responded, then proceeded to cry while he understandably thought I was crazy.

I can’t help but wonder if perhaps one of our roles as disciples is to see each other—especially those we don’t really know—as someone else’s child who might be far from home. How would I lead or live differently if I moved from seeing people for what they do or where they work to who they belong to and who might be missing them? How does my approach to ministry change if I have offered something or promised to look after someone? How might our parishes transform if our first thought at the sight of any new face, regardless of their age, was that they are someone’s son or daughter? Because they are someone’s child, and we know their Heavenly Father. And maybe, just maybe, they might be missing Him, and He might be missing them—and we could bring just a little bit of comfort.

Annie Cellucci will be just fine. But her earthly father? He will be perpetually missing her. As we begin this next week, let’s find and give comfort in the knowledge that Annie, and all of us, are never actually alone.

But please, let me know the next time you’re driving through South Bend.