The Seventh Sister

March 14, 2007 - 2:53pm

What will it be like when you are gone, I wonder? You’ve been with us for so long. It’s hard to remember what it was like before you came.

First there was a line between two points, a single dimension. It was like living before consciousness. There was no awareness of others. No need for it. It was just the two of us, and I was happy with things the way they were.

Then you came into our world and added a new dimension. You turned a line into a triangle with three sharp points. Everything changed, and I was afraid at first. But then you became my little buddy. Believe it. I took you everywhere in those days. I carried you high on my shoulders, behind my head. Your legs dangled in front of my chest, and I held your ankles in my hands. I wanted to show you everything - the whole world.

When the news came that we were becoming a square, I felt jealous and protective. I didn’t want a newcomer to ruin our triangle. A part of me knew that there would never again be one little girl who was my buddy. But she came, and we saw that she was also good. In time we settled into a four-cornered life.

Then a third girl came, and we took on the shape of a star. In time I came to love our star-shaped family. I even made my own private constellation. I renamed the belt of Orion and began to call it The Three Sisters in honor of my little girls.

Years passed. Each November The Three Sisters rose in the night sky. I watched them and smiled. Things changed. You grew older and wiser and more interesting to me. And I got older too. My shoulders can no longer hold you, and the view is not enough for you anymore.

You were the rooster, the one who announced a new day and a new era. The end of our line and the beginning of our shapes. Reiley Rooster Simon and Schuster. I swear we used to call you that. And oh how you did fly from animals to books, from Old McDonald to Jung, from little girl to young woman.

So what are you saying? Are you saying that we’re going back to being a square again? Are you telling me that you’re going away, and you’re not coming back?

Never? Only for visits? Are you serious?

I knew this day would come, but I never let myself think about it. Never until now at the very end.

Okay, you growing up and having your own life is a good thing. I know that. But before you go, I want you to look into the night sky. Look past our beloved Orion, far above his shoulders and even beyond the red eye of Taurus that sees all. There in the blackness you will see a little teacup constellation of six stars. Many ancient people called it The Seven Sisters.

There were seven stars in this constellation once, thousands of years ago. Seven sisters, but one of them disappeared. One day someone counted, and she wasn’t there anymore. No one knows where she went. Who knows how something like that happens. Maybe it was just her time. Time for that little star to go her own way. And yet, for centuries, they were still known as The Seven Sisters. The seventh sister went away, but I like the idea that they kept the name and maybe a place for her at the table, just in case she came home for a visit.

Somewhere along the way a modern person said, “Hey, there are only six stars.” And now people usually call them the Pleiades, which is the Greek name for The Seven Sisters. But I guess it doesn't draw attention to the fact that one of them has gone her own way.

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. In honor of you, our departing sister, I officially reject the name Pleiades. I’m going back to the old name. As far as I’m concerned, that little teacup above Orion is called The Seven Sisters.

Can I rename the stars whenever I like? Don’t ask me; you know I can.

So now it is your time. I know that. I see you chomping at the bit, ready to take your life into your own hands. This change is right and good, but it hurts more than I ever imagined. Because no matter how often people say, “Oh, she’ll come home sometimes,” and “She’ll always be your daughter,” you and I know that things will never be the same. My little buddy is leaving, and she doesn’t fit on my shoulders anymore. That’s the truth, and I resent anyone who suggests that it shouldn’t hurt like hell.

So go now, while I am being foolish and philosophical. Now is the time. Go, my strong young woman. Go right up in the face of life. Seize everything. Do not back down or back away.

Sit high above the shoulders of Orion; I want you to see everything.

rlp

 

Submitted by mattman on March 14, 2007 - 3:11pm.

hard to comment through tears. I have at least a decade before I have to face this, but the prospect itself is painful to contemplate.

Submitted by rbarenblat on March 14, 2007 - 3:17pm.

Dagnabbit, preacher, you made me cry.

Seriously, I'm sending this essay to my mother, for all the best reasons. Thank you.

***
"Why write unless you praise the sacred places?" -- Richard Howard

Submitted by jhamlinn on March 14, 2007 - 4:19pm.

My oldest went off to college6.5 years ago. It hurt like hell. I cried all the way home everytime I drove her out. I used to drive her myself just so I could cry on the way home. We're better for it now but I couldn't see it then.

Submitted by Simian Farmer on March 14, 2007 - 4:38pm.

That was so beautiful. Like a commenter above, I passed the link along to my mother. Tears, yes.

(I like the look of your glasses better now. :)

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 14, 2007 - 4:50pm.

fine gordon...make me cry! One is at college and the other will leave us in the fall.
The house feels too empty and still already. Where have those years gone?

Lissa

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 14, 2007 - 5:46pm.

that was beautiful. I left home almost 8 years ago, the oldes of 4 and my dad's 'blonde baby' as he's always called me. One of the few times he's shed tears. I pushed away a lot during college, but now visit every chance I can. It's been a blast for my parents to become my friends as well as my parents in the past few years.

Thanks for sharing.

Submitted by textjunkie on March 14, 2007 - 5:58pm.

oh dude, I joined the group blubbering too. I'm someone's little girl and I'm sure my dad felt like me the same way when I left home, he just didn't say it like that. (I was the 2nd kid, not the first, but I was the first to leave the nest, so it's all the same.)

Thank you so much for sharing this. I am sure your daughter knows you love her.

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 14, 2007 - 6:58pm.

I remember the day I left for college 18 years ago, and I went over to my grandma's house to say good-bye. I had a horrible knot in my stomach, and I didn't understand why because I knew I'd come home again. As I hugged my grandma good-bye, I said, I'll be back, she said, "I know, but it won't be the same." I didn't get it at the time, but as I look back, she was right.

I am sure this is not easy.
Thanks for taking the time...

becky

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 14, 2007 - 7:09pm.

What a beautiful gift you've given your daughter! She will treasure it, I'm sure. Once when I was a young girl, I had my dad sign my autograph book (dating myself, I see). Even at that age I recognized the beauty of what he had written. When I was away at college, somehow that book got tossed during a spring cleaning. I'd give a lot to have back that one page. Even more so my dad.

Submitted by slither dude on March 14, 2007 - 7:42pm.

Hey RLP,

This is beautiful. I think I only have a few years on your daughter -- this gives me a glimpse of how my parents must have felt when I moved out. I know she's thankful to you though -- any child who was lovingly raised to be strong enough to stand on her own is thankful to her parents. As I've said before here:

"I have no idea how to raise a daughter, but I have a good blueprint on how to raise a son. My parents raised me well. I could come crying home, secure in the knowledge that my mother would wash my wounds and make the hurt go away whenever accidents ended my childhood adventures. I would also be confident to take on new and amazing adventures the very next day, because my father has given me the courage and strength, and he has encouraged me to explore more and more."

Peace, RLP :) Half a world away, I'll watch the stars with you.

Submitted by BillG on March 14, 2007 - 7:57pm.

Ah Gordon, I feel for you. I think she'll do well. Certainly if having you for her dad counts for anything she's well prepared to go into the world.

Submitted by scout on March 14, 2007 - 9:12pm.

Wow. My oldest daughter just turned a mere 2 years old (and my youngest is only 5 months). Just thinking about my sweet Maria and I being anything other than closeasthis...or my own existence without her on my hip and her sticky little hands in my hair... Ugh! It just leaves an ache in the pit of my stomach. I know its inevitable, but it is going to tear my heart right down the middle.

I think I need to go watch her sleep for a while.

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 14, 2007 - 9:26pm.

My one and only is turning 10 next week and I have been viualizing this little scenario that you just wrote about for at least 5 years now. I guess it is masochistic to play mind games like that with yourself, but I know it is going to hurt like hell, and maybe by living the pain early it will ease some of the sting when the real time comes. Probably not. I miss my little girl already and I still have a few more years to go. It just helps me to be mindful and savor the moments I have left.

Thanks for the good hurt.

Michael

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 14, 2007 - 10:25pm.

Printed this. Gonna put it in an envelope for 10 years from now when my son hits 18. Every now and then I say "Son?", "What, mom", "Thanks for coming to be my son", "You're welcome". That's what this felt like.

Wish I'd had a dad like you. Just found out, after my dad passed in October, that he never wanted me. *heavy sigh*.

Presbyterian Gal

Submitted by OldPoet on March 15, 2007 - 5:46pm.

Presby Gal,
Hurts. A lot. For a long time...ever. I have a daughter, 21. I put a lot of consideration into my relationship with her. Plan...like you putting the essay into an envelope. It does not replace what we didn't have or feel we lacked from our original family. It is, however, a shoulder-sitting, seven sisters gazing, freaking miracle to have a family (me, husband, daughter) that is good and right and full. It makes my life feel like the best life. It just took a while to balance out and then tip the scales. Hope it is that way for you.
OldPoet

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 14, 2007 - 10:39pm.

g,
thank you for this post.
p.

Submitted by KQ on March 14, 2007 - 11:32pm.

Yes, it will hurt like hell.
No, it will never be the same, not ever again.
And you five (and, eventually, probably, more!) will be just fine. Remember Who holds the heavens!

Submitted by Sandykins on March 15, 2007 - 12:30am.

Well said...

I understand your pain. I lost my dad a year ago and received the gift of my first grand daughter in November. Life marches on, bringing new and exciting experiences.

Submitted by Lauren on March 15, 2007 - 6:00am.

So poignant. For me the provocation, also, a paradox. Two sons 16 and 13. One will go and one will stay, until my back can no longer lift him and my heart can no longer triumph over ... everything.
Your words ... beauty and denouement.

Lauren

Submitted by rlp on March 15, 2007 - 9:37am.

so well said and beautifully said. thank you. I can see your willingness to carry the one son who will not go away, for whatever reason that is. My love to you and for the kind of love you have found.

Submitted by brigid23 on March 15, 2007 - 7:49am.

I had this deep, meaningful response to your essay and it mostly sounds like garbage outside my head. So, let's keep it simple. Thanks. I'm sending this to my dad.

~ Shanti

Submitted by Laura Moncur on March 15, 2007 - 8:49am.

Sending good karma your way. I've experienced this from the other side and I have to admit I also was a little sad when I left home, despite being so excited about my new life.

Sending you all the love that I still feel for my family right now. Do you feel it?!

Pick Me! Weblog

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 15, 2007 - 9:48am.

I know it has been said several times before, but it bares repeating; this is SO beautiful Gordon.
Just out of curiosity where is she going to school?
You dont have to tell me if you dont want, I just wanna know.

Submitted by rlp on March 15, 2007 - 10:00am.

She's considering taking a year to do Bart and Tony Campollo's Mission Year. After that, we'll see.

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 15, 2007 - 10:13am.

O wow! Thats a wonderful thing to do.
I will pray for all of you, I know what your going through. My family is going through the same thing right now.

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 15, 2007 - 10:41am.

I have been reading for months, but this is the first time I have been moved to post. Gordon, that is one of the most beautiful expressions of familial love that I have ever read.

Submitted by abiding on March 15, 2007 - 10:59am.

Beautiful words and a beautiful daughter.

Submitted by revscott on March 15, 2007 - 12:35pm.

*sigh* We have a seven week-old daughter, our first. In those seven weeks I've come to live for the moment when she looks in my face and smiles - I can go all day on one smile. I guess now I know what that funny lump in my stomach is going to become - an OLD funny lump in my stomach, one that never really goes away. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

Thanks for this.
Scott

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 15, 2007 - 1:35pm.

dang preacher, you made me snot all over myself again.

what a gift, from the shoulders to the stars.

Submitted by LutheranHusker on March 15, 2007 - 3:50pm.

Dammit, Gordon! Why'd you have to go and write something so damned touching, heartfelt, and TRUE on a day where I'm a sleep-deprived (and now also a crying, blubbering) emotional wreck and idiot, thanks to the 3 year-old "point" on my family's triangle?

Kiddo woke up last night around midnight because it was a little too warm in his room--I helped him go back to sleep after about 15 minutes, but then my body said "HEY...YOU'RE AWAKE NOW." And so I was until about 2:30.

But that wasn't until after I spent from about 2:10 until 2:30 in my son's room, just watching him sleep and marveling at how much I love the kid.

And now my face is all tear-stained and I have to go pick him up from his daycare provider in about 10 minutes. *SIGH*

I love it...wouldn't have it any other way.

Thanks, Preacher!

http://lutheranhusker.blogspot.com

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 15, 2007 - 5:45pm.

Gordon,

My twin boys graduated from High School 4 years ago. I spent their Senior year crying over every thing that they would do for the "last" time. After they moved the next Fall, I couldn't go past or into their room without crying.

You carry them in your body (well, we Mom's do), you carry them on your hip or on your shoulders, you love them and teach them and tuck them in at night, and then suddenly, they're gone. I told them once, when they were little boys, that their job was to grow up and go away someday, and my job was to hold onto them until I knew they were ready to do that. With all of the hurts of childhood I comforted, the pain and angst of adolescence that I felt right along with them, the worry when they started driving, all of that, letting them go is hardest damn thing I ever had to do. So, I know exactly how you feel.

But, in a way, you know, they're still riding on our shoulders.

In peace,
D. Young
(Quaker Lady)

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 15, 2007 - 6:33pm.

Hey Preacher,
My daughter (whose initials are RLP curiously) is wrapping up her first year at college. It has been wonderful and weird. For me she's my only, my wife has medical conditions that made a second, or third child just too much of a crap shoot. So we thanked God for our one perfect healthy (and 6.5 week preemie) baby and moved on. I remember when I was the only man in her life, her best buddy. I'm decidedly on the second team right now. Part of that hurts and part of that is wonderful. Seems like I and my lady wife did OK.

There'll always be a little hollow place now. You just have to learn to live with it.
Peace
Jay

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 15, 2007 - 7:24pm.

Preacher,
There have only been three things I have ever read that have made me cry.
One was "The Great Divorce" by C.S. Lewis
The other was "Goodbye Iron Giant" by Gordon Atkinson
and now "The Seventh Sister" joins that list.

You know what the most beautiful and moving part of this essay is dont you preacher?
Its the picture at the bottom.

Submitted by Wondering Pastor on March 16, 2007 - 12:42pm.

Oh Gordon, the pain is so bittersweet. My baby girl left home nearly ten years ago - I remember that day like it was yesterday. We drove the nearly 500 miles home from Fort Worth, her mother crying most of the way and me crying when she wasn't. But like most things, we survived; some for the better, some not. The good news is that she found her way and has returned to our little town with her husband and our two year old granddaughter in tow. I don't know how long they will stay, but every day is a blessing. Just as it was when she was little, when young Parker says "hi poppa" the world stops for just a moment and the joy is hard to describe. My baby boy, nine years younger, will be arriving home in a few hours from his first year at school - spring break at home; a treat for us. We're watching him trying to find his way and that is so very hard. We had a child at home for nearly 28 years between the two of them and the adjustment has been difficult. Thank God for easy communications and the need to be in our son's part of the state for meetings - that's made this year easier than it might have been.
While I can identify with your pain, I can assure you that while life will never, ever be the same, it will be good, with differences that will amaze you with new joy; she'll still call you daddy.

Grace and Peace

Submitted by rlp on March 16, 2007 - 3:28pm.

The funny thing is, I know all that. And I'm looking forward to it. And I'm tired of parenting her. That's not the right way to say it...uh, I'm ready to see her parent herself.

So I don't walk around grieving. But there is a part of me that knows that a season of my life is over. And like most seasons of life and human development, it will never come back.

Submitted by FluffyN on March 16, 2007 - 4:33pm.

Thank you for another beautiful essay. I am the oldest of three sisters so I've always enjoyed your writings about your girls. And now as a mommy I appreciate it in a whole different way. Sometimes I want my babies to stay little forever, but at the same time I can't wait to see what kind of people they will become.

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 20, 2007 - 3:16pm.

My youngest angel (the only one I can call that) is a sophomore in high school. She's been with me almost every weekend since she was three - even on Mother's Day. When "Butterfly Kisses" came out it made me cry for what I know is bound to happen. Being single (I hate the label "Divorced"), I wonder who will fill the hole she will leave in my life? I can't go anywhere without her and still be myself....not that myself is that exciting, but I'm the wall upon which the wallflower leans without her.

It has been my privilege to be Laura's dad. She's the best thing I ever did. It might not have been so had my her mom went ahead with the abortion. I can't even go there. God surely knew I would need someone who loves me unconditionally and protected her for my sake.

I'm only half kidding when I tell her that I'm going on their honeymoon when she gets married. I might rent an apartment near where she attends college so we can share our weekends together. I buy lottery tickets so I can buy her a home right next door to me. I'm my daughter's daddy and she's her daddy's girl. There's no boy good enough for her and I will commit violence upon one that hurts her. I'm going to miss her when she's gone.

Submitted by Anonymous User on March 22, 2007 - 3:21am.

Hi Gordon,

Oh so many emotions!

My son aged 3.5 has suddenly changed from a toddler to a little boy. My baby girl has changed from a baby to a toddler. My heart aches at the thought of them growing up and leaving but this is what they are meant to do.

As a daughter I have longed for my fathers love and have had to accept that it will never be. Your girls are so lucky to have you.

Tuesday just gone our extended family buried a three year old girl. Abigail. The name means my fathers delight.

Thank you Gordon, as always you hit the spot.

ScoG Blog