Peter Pan and Lullabies

This week we traveled to Wilmington, NC to visit my brother Brad, his wife Andrea, and their two kids, Alex and Annie. This was the first of many "final" goodbyes we'll face over the next three weeks. There is something about knowing it's the last time you'll see someone for several years that makes the visit bittersweet, emotional, and intentional. Each moment with them seemed sharper; each conversation, more purposeful; each setting, more colorful.

It drizzled lightly on our first day in Wilmington. It's a beach town, so of course our girls were eager to experience the North Carolina coast one last time before heading overseas. Due to the cool, misty weather, the cousins instead spent time indoors playing, while my sister-in-law and I enjoyed unhurried time in conversation. During a break in the weather, we headed to the cheesy boardwalk area and played old carnival games, earning tickets to be exchanged for cheap plastic trinkets. We bought ice cream (a "must" at the beach, regardless of the weather), and took a leisurely stroll on the sandy boardwalk. That evening my brother grilled steaks. We sat around the table for hours, sharing stories from our childhood, and remembering family gatherings from the past. Time slowed down as the memories poured forth. It felt very "French."

The next morning, the sun broke through the clouds and we all headed to the beach after all. I took it all in - the roar of the surf, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the feel of gritty sand and cool waves between my toes. The shrieks of laughter from the kids as they body-surfed. My niece's intense concentration as she built sand castles. I wanted it all etched deeply into my memory.

Back at the house, I sat on the floor of my seven-year-old nephew's room as we listened to his collection of CD's. Alex showed me a CD of lullabies that had helped him get to sleep when he was a toddler. We listened to it, and he said the music made him sad. I asked why. He said, "Well, I'll never be a baby again for the rest of my life." I looked at him and smiled sadly -- I understood. His eyes were shining. He said, "I'm not crying. I just have a little water in my eyes."

I call it the "Peter Pan" syndrome. Deep down, we want life to stay the same. We don't really want to grow up. An exciting adventure in Lyon awaits, yet part of me wants to curl up in bed and stay right where things are safe, cozy, and familiar. Life does move forward, though, with new challenges and obstacles, and that is good! It would be a terrible waste to forego adventure for safety, to just let things stagnate. So, I choose to seek out what's next with my head held high, my hands on my hips, and a smile on my face, just like Peter Pan as he faced Captain Hook. I can still look back on those fond memories of great times with friends and family. They will always, always be with me. All I have to do is fly back to the nursery window, peek my head in, and listen to the music. Alex, will you join me?