Parents are usually the ones sending their children off. They watch from the hallway as their child enters their classroom on the first day of kindergarten, then from the curb during first grade, then from the kitchen window as the school bus comes to a stop. There is a brief parting during summer camps, then for months at a time during college. They watch from the kitchen window during Thanksgiving and Christmas, waiting for the child to point his feet back home. Usually, it is the parents that send their kids off and it is the parents that watch and wait, hoping for the child’s return.
“Ready?” I asked, closing my mother’s small carry on. All of her things were packed and it was time to leave. Sunlight streamed through my window, bathing my apartment in light. It made the whole room look cheery when the reality of the situation was anything but. Eighteen days earlier, my mother and I had left for Japan. We were together for the first five days of my study abroad experience. On the fifth day, she dropped me off at a hotel in Higashi Shinjuku. I would be staying there for the next four days during my program orientation. After orientation, I would be moving into my apartment. During orientation, she would meet up with her cousin from New Jersey and travel to Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan, to do some sightseeing. She would then come back to Tokyo after my orientation and help me settle into my home for the next year.
I moved into my apartment on the 14th of September but still had a few more school events the following week, so she didn’t arrive until the evening of the 19th. She helped me clean my apartment and move in completely. She got to see my neighborhood, gave me advice on groceries, house upkeep, meals, laundry, finances, how to prepare for parties and multiple guests, and general advice on living on my own. The few days we had together flew by. Her flight was on the evening of the 23rd of September, but she had to be at the airport by 3:00 P.M. With all her stuff packed, we had our last meal together then checked my room to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind. With that, I locked my apartment door behind me, and we headed to Shinjuku Station.
Shinjuku Station was busy when we arrived. Being a major transportation hub, it always is. The station was in constant motion as people came and went, each with his or her own purpose, their own sight to see or home to return to. My mother got her one-way ticket to the airport and we hugged, holding each other just a little bit longer. There are six members in my family. I am the youngest. We had agreed that each person would visit me separately during my year abroad. That way, I would see a family member every few months. My mother had opted to be the first so that she could help me settle in and see the place where I would be spending the next year of my life. That also meant that she would not be visiting me during the year. She had chosen to be there in the beginning so a year would go by before I could see her again in person. Tears rolled down my face as we held each other. As painful as it was for me, I’m sure it was more difficult for her.
My mother always said that everything I did would be her last. As the youngest, each bridge I crossed, each graduation, and obstacle I overcame, was also the last time she would ever go through it. When she weaned me from breastfeeding, that was the last time she would ever hold a child to her breast. When I graduated from high school, that was the last time a child of hers would walk across that stage. One day I will walk across another stage to receive my college diploma and that will also be the last for her. “You have to be excellent,” she had told me, “you have to be the best that you can be because this program is expensive. Not in money, but in time and distance.” Worldly success was not important to her. Doing our best was enough. And doing it to the glory of God. She wanted us to be successful not merely for personal comfort or wealth but that we would be secure and competent; that we could be credible community movers while having a roof over our heads and never having to fear being destitute. She wanted us to have homes that would act as centers of influence, bringing others to Christ, what she calls, “embassy for God.” So, even though it was hard for me to let her go, I know that it was much harder for her to leave me in a foreign country. She could have said, “No,” discouraged me from going abroad and I would have listened. But she encouraged me, drove me to my Japanese language classes, had me get my own Costco account (so I can decide to turn it into an international one), and equipped me with the skills, not just to live on my own, but to thrive in whatever environment I was placed in. My time here in Japan and what I accomplish is a testimony to my upbringing and the things my mother taught me.
We kept whispering, “I love you,” in each other’s ears as tears streamed down our faces. Then we took a step back and released each other. She passed through the station gate and headed to her train platform. I watched her through the crowd as she turned back and waved. She did this about three or four times. Each time, I waved back. But soon enough, the crowd of people has swallowed her up and she vanished from sight. It’s usually the parents that send their kids off. This time, it was I, the child, sending my mother off.
As a child, I was always at my mother’s side. Growing up, I heard many people comment on this, criticizing her for bringing up children that in their eyes were too dependent. Saying we would never amount to much if my mother always kept us close. They didn’t understand that I was always with her because I enjoyed her company. Or that we were by her side because she was teaching and training us. My mother created an environment where we felt safe and secure. She kept us close so that we could venture out and be daring, knowing she was there if we failed. When the time was right, she sent us off into the world, knowing she had equipped us to face the challenges before us.
So the sentimental parting at Shinjuku Station was a quiet but grand send off. However, it was not hers, it was mine.
Until Next Time,
Gabriella Jeane
P.S. I hope you guys enjoyed this week's post. For more content, check out my latest videos on YouTube and follow me on Instagram.
Comments