The following is from a letter I wrote to our children, Ruthie (16) and Mac (19), during my recent sabbatical. Note: I recognize that some interpretations of the Parable of the Prodigal Son cast the father in the story as God. Regardless, it is not my intent to assume that impossible role in framing these thoughts to my children; rather, it is my hope to make the thoughts that I was struggling with in these words more accessible, relevant, and especially encouraging for anyone who reads them.
4pm, Saturday, April 27, 2024
St. Gregory’s Abbey, Three Rivers, Michigan
Dear Mac & Ruthie,
It’s Day 27 of my sabbatical. I’m staying at a monastery stewarded by benedictine monks. As is often the case, I have you on my mind.
They have a library where I spent a few hours searching for books and reading. One of the books that jumped out at me was Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. I didn’t read it when it first came out in 1996, but I did see the movie adapted from it. It was good as I recalled, but I also remembered not liking the main character: a well-educated guy with an undergrad degree from Emory in his early 20s from an affluent family who decides to leave home, change his name, give his savings to OXFAM, burn his money, and venture into the Alaskan wilderness without telling his family anything about his whereabouts. He dies from starvation in the wild. His self-absorbed wanderlust rubbed me wrong even in my more self-absorbed 20s when I saw the movie. Seeing the book, I thought maybe I’d gain some insight from a deeper dive into the story, coupled with the hindsight of more than two decades of my own growth.
I’m almost done reading it, and not only do I have no more appreciation for the motives of the young man who goes “into the wild” than I did from seeing the movie, I have even more reasons for shaking my head at him. But all the thoughts I have about his decision(s) to do what he did ultimately say far more about me than they ever will about him. This is the context for why you’re in my mind.
Kind of like the young man in Krakauer’s book but with far different details to my journey, I have spent the bulk of this sabbatical in my own kind of self-imposed isolation. Since April 1, I have been in 15 cities (two in Mexico), flown on 6 airplanes, slept in 11 different places, and spent hours among complete strangers, some of whom I sat in total silence with for days. Throughout that time, I have felt very much alone. On trains in Chicago standing inches away from people crammed in like sardines, I was by myself. In coffee shops and restaurants with commotion and socializing everywhere, I was by myself. At tables with strangers eating in silence at a spiritual retreat center and this monastery, I’ve been by myself. To a degree, the solitude is a refreshing part of the sabbatical that I need. But to a larger degree, being apart from your mom and you makes me miss that palpable feeling of belonging.
It’s something I can’t articulate; only describe. It’s what I preach about in so many sermons: that everyone matters, is loved, is never alone, and belongs. I believe that, to a degree, every human being is meant for relationship. In preacher terms, if we’re made in God’s image, then that truth in our identity is undeniable: the Creator of all good things was lonely, so that Creator created earthlings for the purpose of relationship with Them and one another. By consequence, at the core of our being, each of us yearns for belonging. For me, that yearning is fulfilled in knowing that no matter where I am, what’s happening around me, and even whether I am surrounded by people or completely isolated, I belong to your mom and to both of you, and you belong to me. It’s not a matter of property rights or something in a capitalist mindset. It’s a matter of security and, ironically, of liberation. Because I belong, I am free to be.
What does this have to do with the Into the Wild story? The main character in that true story sets out to disprove the universal truth: that we are meant for relationship, and without belonging we cannot survive. According to the book, accounts of his final written thoughts reveal his concession to that truth, but not before he has cut off all ties from his family and sealed his own fate in the wilderness. I can travel on a sabbatical sojourn, and I can “let go” of you (as we did last year, bidding Mac farewell on his first year of college), but I cannot sever myself from you. God forbid that you would ever see fit to sever yourself from your mom, me, or each other.
This brings me to the second thought I have about Into the Wild. Throughout my entire reading of the book, I was consumed with an underlying fear, as if it already existed somewhere in my mind and the story was giving it permission to come to the surface. I am afraid—terrified—at the thought of either of you ever making the decision to estrange yourselves from your mom and me.
The young man doesn’t make that decision until he’s done with college. He’s beyond the reach of his parents, and what he decides to do with that freedom is to cut them off entirely. I don’t understand it. This is hard for me to explain, but my fear is that, despite my best efforts at loving you (imperfect efforts, to be sure), something in you might persuade you to strip yourself of any belonging to me (and me to you), and to search for that belonging elsewhere. Or, worse yet, you might convince yourself that belonging is not necessary or even weak. This, to me, is textbook evil. (See Darth Vader.)
Whatever the future holds, my loves, and whatever relationships you enter into, be those relationships with a spouse, a partner, children, dearly loved pets, or a passionately desired career, never forget that you belong, and that there is nothing you can ever do that would ever sever that bond between you and your mom and me. My dad told me when I was a teenager that your family will always be there for you unless you walk out on them, but I’ve grown to find that statement lacking. Ruthie and Mac, your family will always be there for you, even if you walk out on them. Still, please, don’t ever put that to the test. I love you.
Love,
Dad/Daddy
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