To Our Daughter, Class of 2020

Dear Lilly,

Last August, you started saying things like, “This time next year, I’ll be at college,” or, “This is my last first day of high school,” or, “I’m going to miss you so much when I leave.”

To your parents, it seemed surreal—that after 12 years of school and almost 18 years of life, you were less than 12 months away from leaving the nest.

More than once I reminded you. “You have a whole year. Don’t rush. Take one day at a time. You’ll be ready when it’s time to go.”

Friends with adult daughters empathized. “By the time her senior year is over, she’ll be ready to go to college and you’ll be ready for her to go,” they told me.

We had a taste of that last fall. It wasn’t so much what you did as much as it was something we sensed. You were champing at the bit for independence, anxious to move on and start the next chapter of your life.

An image came to my mind then, of fruit ripening on a tree.

When the fruit first appears, it’s small and holds tight to the branch. Over the growing season, it gets bigger and more colorful. It might look ready, but if you tried to pull it off the tree, it wouldn’t come off easily because it’s not ripe yet. It still has to develop flavor and sweetness and that luscious fresh-fruit aroma.

At the beginning of your senior year, you were like the fruit that looked ready but still needed to ripen. What we didn’t know back then is that you would be spending the last few months back in the greenhouse.

This might be where the pomology metaphor breaks down, because you don’t typically put fruit trees inside after they have been growing outside. But God knew what you needed this year—what your family needed too.

Your junior year began with a painful knee injury that ended your cross-country season prematurely and resulted in several months of challenging rehab. It concluded with the loss of the two dear grandparents who had lived near us since before you went to kindergarten.

There were some victories last year, some very good developments. But it was hard with a capital H.

After all that, I was more than confident. “I don’t know what is going to happen your senior year,” I told you, “but I guarantee it won’t be worse than your junior year. How could it be?”

So, about that.

This may not be the story of any other senior, but it is your story. I know this because you’ve told me.

What has happened this spring, though strange and disappointing and unprecedented, has not been worse than last year. Not for you.

In some mysterious way that often only happens to people when they are much older, last year prepared you for this year.

In the fall, you got your senior pictures taken and began planning your grad party. Later, we started looking forward to a summer reunion in Maryland where we would celebrate the achievements of the three senior girls in our family.

You jumped wholeheartedly into a new youth group in January because, as you said, you’re going to have to find a new church at college so you might as well get some practice.

I think that’s when it hit me: She’s getting closer to being ready.

When you went back to school after Christmas, senioritis was at full strength. You were looking forward to swim season, but beyond that—as you let us know quite often—you were “so done” with high school.

And then, abruptly and unceremoniously, it was over.

The governor cancelled in-person school for the rest of the year. You really were done. And, due in no small part to divine providence, you were OK with that.

It hasn’t always been super fun, sheltering-in-place with three introverted homebodies. But it’s been good—for you and for us.

We’ve baked bread and French macarons together, played numerous rounds of Five Crowns and enjoyed weekly picnics at the lake.

You’ve logged many miles running and biking on the trail near our house. You even managed to get me off the treadmill and onto the trail once a week.

We’ve run in freezing rain, blistering cold and muggy spring weather, with me huffing and puffing like elephant at the end of a marathon and you kindly encouraging me to keep going.

You’ve spent many hours at the dining-room table—eating pasta, coloring with Molly while listening to audiobooks, and taking notes while your college biology teacher explains concepts like gel electrophoreisis over Zoom.

Even though you don’t much like video communication, you’ve connected with the incoming class of freshman at your college, the activities directors, the residence-life staff and the advisors for the two majors you’ll be pursuing.

The old is fading; the road ahead is rising up to meet you.

Here’s the truth, as seen by your mom who knows you well.

Four years at a large public high school can take their toll, especially for someone who notices everything and absorbs all kinds of energy from the people around you.

Even so, you’ve grown. You’ve matured. You’ve reached out for help.

You’ve learned to advocate for yourself, and for others. You’ve worked so very hard. And we are so proud of you.

You also put a lot of pressure on yourself. The stress didn’t overwhelm you, but it was a burden.

These last few months, at home with a few college classes to finish up, the stress seems to have largely evaporated. It’s been replaced by laughter, and what a joyful noise that is.

Nobody has a laugh like yours, dear Lilly. I’m not the only one who’s going to miss it next year.

At moments like these, parents sometimes feel like they have to cram all the wisdom they possibly can into a few paragraphs that will stick with their kids throughout the rest of their lives.

I don’t feel that urge with you—I know how much you’ve already absorbed from us, how those lessons seem to come back just when you need them.

Just a few thoughts, though—because you know I can’t help it.

Sweet daughter, we can’t wait to see what the next chapter of your life holds. Chances are, it will unfold in ways that we can’t even imagine right now. That’s how life works, as you well know.

But God’s plans for you are good, and for your good. He will go before you and be with you.

As you say good-bye to high school and head off to college, hold your expectations loosely. Do what’s right. Pray. Don’t compare yourself to anyone else. Give others the benefit of the doubt. Be yourself.

You are beautiful. You are loved. You are enough.

And yes, You are ready.

We’ll always be a phone call, FaceTime chat or text away.

And when in-person is the only thing that will do, we’ll be here for that too—with wide open arms and big plates of spaghetti.

♥ Mom

P.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, #HeartEncouragement, Let’s Have Coffee and Grace & Truth.

Photos of Lilly in gray sweater by Holly Palacio.