Before we brought our first child home from the hospital more than eighteen years ago, I told my wife that I was going to become a pro at swaddling.

She taught me how by expertly wrapping stuffed bears in blankets. She’d grab a square or rectangular blanket, turn it to become a diamond, fold the top over, and lay the stuffed bear down so that its head rested above the fold. Next, she’d fold one side over the other–gently tucking the point under the small body before bringing the bottom up and tucking the point into the top. Then the final side would be brought across the top so that the folds were wrapped together to resist the fidgeting limbs of the inanimate object posing as a small child.

My wife was a good teacher, I was trying to be a good student, and I thought I was getting pretty skilled at swaddling. I practiced a lot, because I was aware as the due date approached that there was little I was going to be able to help with during the actual delivery (a fact later not only confirmed but proven true way beyond my expectations). 

Finally, the day came when my daughter was placed in my arms. I never felt so helpless—and yet also so happy. The cosmos rotated differently and my heart felt like it was exploding in response to the little person generating her own energy back at me—almost as though the little one already knew of love.

We brought her home, and then that first afternoon, it was time for me to put my new swaddling skills into practice. It did not go well. I was unable to replicate the smooth folds with the now animate limbs of a newborn. She wiggled and squirmed, ruining my folds and disrupting my tucks.

My illusions were shattered: I was not a pro at all, I was a novice, only a beginner. The lesson that came through—a lesson repeated often over the next few months and years—was that I needed to learn how to be a dad to the life that was actually present instead of the life I was anticipating.

I had not thought about that for years until a recent evening when that little girl—the baby we brought home from the hospital who is now a young woman—walked across the stage to receive her high school diploma. On that night, our daughter the graduate and my wife left for commencement early: Our daughter needed to get ready with her classmates and my wife went to reserve seats for our family.

Meanwhile, I wrangled our other three children into church-type clothes. We had picked up a bouquet of flowers to give our daughter after commencement and my other daughter and I agreed that we couldn’t present them packaged in cellophane with the price tag still attached. I grabbed some white tissue paper and looked at my daughter with a “so what do I do now” look. She shrugged.

At that moment, I had an idea. I’d swaddle these flowers. Their beautiful blooms would peek out of the top on display for the world while their stems were held secure. I laid the paper down on the kitchen island, turned it to a diamond, folded the top corner down and then gently received the flowers from my daughter like a new life and laid them on the paper blanket. Suddenly tears started to fall onto the tissue paper, almost ruining my attempt to recreate the swaddle. At the same time, with the first fold, I realized how out of practice I am (our youngest is seven now, so it has been years). I was no longer a pro. 

But then, I never really was a pro. I have always been learning to be a parent on the job. I constantly feel like I don’t know what I am doing. I watched my oldest child graduate the other night with deep pride in who she is and how God is present in her life. But if I am honest, that feels mostly due to God’s grace—plus the amazing parenting of my wife. I still feel as helpless and yet happy as I did the first time our daughter was placed in my arms. And now, just like I had to practice swaddling that newborn all over again, I have to practice letting go. 

Letting go, or any course of change, is a learned practice just as much as it is a lived experience. I had to learn that she would be fine on her first day of school, or riding her bike to the Dairy Queen with the neighbor girls. I had to learn that she can drive a car by herself without me needing to follow her using Apple tracking. I had to learn that she can handle horror movies just fine—I am the one waking up terrified to go to the bathroom at 3 a.m. I had to learn that she is capable of living her faith in a way that sometimes seems different to me—trusting that the love of God in Christ Jesus will hold her through doubts and questions that her pastor-dad needs to give her space with.

The temptation is to smother—to swaddle too tightly to stop the fidgeting. I have found that rarely has the desired result. The other parenting temptation is to simply ignore what is plain to see. She is growing up. Her needs have changed and my parenting instincts have to change too, as I realize there are problems popsicles and Band-Aids won’t fix. 

Before my daughter’s graduation, I thought I was ready to let her go and move on to her next thing. But just like with trying to swaddle her on her first day at home, I am finding I wasn’t ready at all. I know I can’t wish her back to being a newborn and I certainly can’t parent her that way. That’s not healthy for her or me or anyone else in our family. 

Being reminded that I’m just a novice is the way it always is when encountering another life. The patterns have repeated themselves with all our kids. Children are not stuffed bears or inanimate objects. They are living, breathing people with love and energy all their own.

Finding peace while letting go is a lesson I’m trying to learn. I am not a pro at it any more than I am a pro at any aspect of parenting. I am still a novice, a parent in need of practice . . . and a mountain of God’s grace. 

Header photo by Garrett Jackson on Unsplash