God gave her to me, so when she was itty bitty I held on tight. I swaddled her up and bundled her in. I fought off every bad thing that entered her world. I was supermom in a pair of faded jeans and bunny slippers.
My infant became a gurgly babe.
I held her close. I gave the evil eye to doctors with needles and fought off colds with Lysol wipes and that blue little sucky thing I lovingly referred to as the snotinator. I sang her songs and fed her pureed beets. I pinched her cheeks.
My baby became a little girl.
I had stern talks with bully wannabes and leapt laundry piles in a single bound. I initiated water fights at girl-time sleepovers and made up stories about purple lollipop-stealing monkeys just to hear my daughter’s beautiful belly laugh. I held on.
My little girl became a preteen.
As a single mom, God was our superhero. He swept in and made sure she had food on the table and even a cool bike to ride. He was the perfect father, revealing things in his love for Sam. “I can’t get away with anything,” she’d pout. “God tells you everything.” My grip was steady. Still holding on.
My preteen became a teen.
I fervently prayed and subtly held on to the strap in the truck as she learned how to drive. I tried to counsel her through boys and school. Sometimes I let go when I should have held on. Sometimes I held tight when I should have let go. Brian entered our world and he became a stable force of love. Holding on. Letting go. We walked her through together.
My teen became a grown-up.
Yesterday we stood on the second level of the airport walkway and watched Sam go through security. She looked capable. Competent. But I wanted to run down and push through all the people, “Wait, that’s my little girl! I have to hold on!” But I didn’t. I stood my ground with Brian and we waved and smiled as she went through security to board a plane to Sydney, Australia.
Sometimes holding on means letting go.
And trusting her to the One who gave her to me in the first place.
God, take good care of her please.