I ironed your graduation clothes today.
Khaki pants you’ve almost outgrown—you’ll wear them one more time before I move them to your little brother’s closet. A new button-down shirt, a tie you borrowed from your dad. You tried on everything to make sure it fit, and maybe what you saw in the mirror was simply you, you today in this body, at this age, on this cusp of everything that comes next.
But I see your face as I saw it for the very first time.
I see midnights in a rocking chair with your head on my chest. I see your first smile, your first steps, the day you called me “Mama.” I see block towers and toy trains and Saturday morning cartoons. I see the look on your face when we bought your first backpack for kindergarten. I see the day you learned how to ride a bike, circling proudly in the parking lot of First Baptist Church, shouting out with a big grin, “Mom, look! I got it!” I see spelling words and times tables, basketball practice, and your first dance. I see the day dad taught you to shave and the day I taught you to do laundry. I see the Sunday you made a profession of faith and Sunday your dad baptized you. I see you shooting free throws in the driveway, making your bed every morning, and volunteering at church. I see you mowing the yard and applying for college. I see your long-legged strides on family walks, like the marks on the kitchen doorframe that say you were there and now you’re here.
So many days I had no idea what I was doing, and really, neither did you. But in eighteen years of trial and error, we figured it out.
Tomorrow you’ll walk across a stage wearing a cap and gown, taking a diploma in one hand while you flip the tassel with the other and step into your future. But all I see are eighteen years of bearing witness to the person you have become. To me, you are still every one of those versions of you that mark up the kitchen doorframe. What a blessing it has been to walk with you through every first first. And every first last and every last last.
I don’t know what your future holds—maybe you’ll do great things, maybe you’ll do ordinary things. I’ll be proud of you no matter what.
I couldn’t get that one stubborn wrinkle out of your graduation pants, but I did the best I could. I’ve never been very good at ironing, but I think it will be okay.
For my firstborn son, Isaiah, on the day before his high school graduation
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and is the mother of two sons. She and her husband serve at Grace Bible Fellowship in Sikeston, Missouri where they have served for over twenty years. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence, Everyday Faithfulness, Memorizing Scripture, and Known & Loved. Connect with her on Instagram and Facebook, or sign up for her monthly newsletter.
