Doors open. We start walking, into a blur of smiles and waves and camera flashes, “Jessica’s Theme” now punctuated with “oohs” and “aaahs” from family and friends. Overwhelmed, I lose all sense of my dad. My head, my eyes, my heart, are everywhere else, with everyone else.
And halfway down the aisle, Dad squeezes my arm and leans in. “Can we slow down a little, Honey? Please?” He laughs a little in my ear, but I hear the tears in it. Happy tears, but still. “Yes, of course,” I say, realizing I have been sort of sprinting.
We slow down. This one last time, this final “final stretch,” I let Dad set the pace, and this time, he’s slower than I am. We’ll get there when he’s ready to get there. He’ll let go when he’s ready to let go. His steps are even and sure, and I know he’s counting every one.
And when we get to the end of the aisle and the preacher says, “Who gives this woman?”, Dad lifts my veil and places my husband’s hand on mine and says, “Her mother and I.” His voice doesn’t shake, and his kiss on my cheek tells me, You can go now.
Still blinking tears in my van, I smile at the memory and marvel at my father, my mother—how’d you do it? hold on and let go?—and then I marvel at my daughter. Only four, and she gets it, this life. Maybe a little better than I do.
The next summer, I watch my mother and her sisters say good-bye to their beloved mother, the redhead with the laugh as big as New Jersey. One by one, they sit at her bedside, hold her tiny hand, and kiss her. One by one, they tell her, each in their own way: You can go now, Mom. She cannot speak, but her eyes say thank you.
And I realize, reluctantly, that life is all about holding on while you can, but letting go when it’s time. That’s the magic—the struggle, the wonder, the heartache—of childhood, of life: It’s over too soon, and while it lasts it’s a maddening whirlwind of joy and sorrow and affection and anger and a thousand bittersweet emotions all in the blender at once, exploding all over the kitchen. Making art or a mess, depending on how you look at it, what mood you’re in.
And the magic is in the whirlwind. It’s in the blender, the mess, the art. The magic is in the holding on, but it’s also in the letting go. It’s in the first-day pictures and the track meet medals and the wedding cake cutting, yes. But it’s also in the Play-Doh greetings and the sunset sprinting and the florist-box fanning. It’s in the vigil-keeping and the long goodbye. The magic is in the places in between the holding hands and letting go.
The magic is in taking turns being the one to say it first, the one to give permission. The magic is in letting yourself—sometimes making yourself—hold on a little tighter, and run a little slower, and enjoy the long walk with the one beside you. The magic is in the voice at the end, the quiet voice that gives you a nudge and gently whispers, You can go now.
***
This article originally appeared at LizzyLife.com. Check out Elizabeth’s new book, When God Says Wait.
