He doesn’t mind missing the candles and cake on the actual day. Camp is his happy place. It’s a place where he feels alive, confident, and free. Over the years, he’s built friendships that have lasted. The group chat between his cabin mates is rarely inactive. He pushes himself physically on obstacle courses, overcoming fears and facing new challenges in ways he doesn’t do at home. He’s been spiritually stretched and is often sought out as a prayer warrior or wise counsel among his camp friends.

This year, when I asked him about his favorite part of camp, with the caveat, “Besides your friends,” he said, “The leap of faith.”

I raised my eyebrows at this. “Really?”

You see, my son is not the first to volunteer for heights or big risks of any kind. He tends to think things through carefully. He doesn’t seek out thrills without purpose. He prefers quiet solitude. Most of his “risks” are in the world of video games.

This year, something about the high-ropes elements at camp impacted him greatly. Strapped into a harness, he climbed a tall wooden pole and jumped, reaching for a trapeze bar just out of reach. The goal of the “leap of faith” is simple enough: leap from the platform and grab the bar. When you catch the bar, you soar. If you miss, the harness catches you.

As I listened to him describe the moment, I could hear how his apprehension turned to excitement. This year, his leap of faith felt particularly meaningful. He turned seventeen at camp, and every day feels a bit like climbing that pole. With every choice and plan, the stakes get higher. As parents, we’re on the ground, holding the ropes, shouting encouragement, praying he’ll reach his goals and land safely.

His decisions now carry lasting weight. College and career plans, friendships, and owning his faith. His responsibilities grow as he tests his limits and discovers how far he can go. In many ways, he is leaping, sometimes with confidence and sometimes with fear, but always knowing someone is holding the line. His parents are doing the same, gradually releasing our grip so he can soar.

While he’s still in our home, he has a harness and even a net in the form of boundaries and guidance. His consequences are smaller, with more second chances. We all know the day is coming when the safety net will widen, and his choices will carry him to places we can’t follow.

This season of parenting feels like the high ropes course. We’ve invested in his learning, and we are taking a leap, trusting that we’ve given him what he needs. One day soon, he will soar. Sometimes, he may crash. We take comfort in knowing that even when we’re not the ones holding the rope, God is the truest safety harness.

While he learns to leap, we learn to let go, trusting a faithful Father to hold us both, steadfast and sure, through whatever comes our way.

Nine and a half years later, I find myself revisiting past writings. Many times in the past nine and a half years, we’ve been in a state of transition. Whether with my husband’s employment and education journey, moving into a house, or parenting tweens and teens, each change has created new challenges. I also wouldn’t change anything.

I still enjoy “just five more minutes” to Be Still before the day gets started. This is easier with older kids who now enjoy sleeping past eight o’clock. Even though they are “big kids,” the days continue to be filled with interruptions. No longer dirty diapers or meeting every physical need, but still resolving conflicts, helping with schoolwork, and listening to what’s on their mind. My youngest still wants extra snuggles and reading time together. My oldest asks for just “one more hug” at least twice after going to bed. They know they can count on me for more than five-minute intervals.

Each day, I take time to remember the blessing of each moment and forget the obstacles of the day. I choose to relish the victories. The children who once needed me for nearly everything now need me differently, and the time when they leave is visibly approaching. My prayers continue to be for more patience, strength, and grace for tomorrow, but also that I’m equipping them for what they need when they leave.

As a mom, my biggest wish is for the days to go more smoothly.

I wish for a peaceful, uninterrupted night’s sleep. I wish to wake truly refreshed and ready for all the day may bring. I wish for the energy to tackle a physical workout and spiritual devotional time before everyone else joins me.

I wish for no arguing as we eat breakfast and start schoolwork. I wish for seamless, smooth transitions from work to play. I wish that play were less about screens and more about imagination. I wish for the children to get along with each other and with me, so our errands would go smoothly and without incident.

I wish all these things happened consistently, rather than sporadically.

In other words, smooth days seem beyond my grasp.

Yet so much of what matters most is already mine.

I do not have to wish for children who love me and want to be with me. I do not have to wish for a husband who is home with me after so many seasons of separation.

I do not have to wish for supportive family or friends. I do not have to wish for enough food or a place to call home, even during times of transition.

I do not have to wish for peace, grace, or salvation.

No, my days do not run smoothly in this season of life, but I have so much for which to be thankful.

Perhaps the miracle is not a perfectly smooth day. Perhaps I need to notice how much I have already been given.