Sometimes the deepest insights are found in the simplest scenes. That was the case for me in recent weeks. My life lesson was learned in a corner of my backyard. We’re relatively new to this house, so we didn’t know our backyard is inhabited by two robins, male and female.

Over the course of the past six weeks we’ve watched life unfold.

Beginning Week One—the two birds begin gathering resources—many trips and much work, twigs and straw are gathered, a nest emerges.

Weeks Two, Three, Four—four blue eggs appear in the newly formed nest; then over three weeks they take turns, male and female are now mother and father, alternating shifts, luring away potential danger, roosting, warming.

Weeks Five, Six—life has happened. The planning, building, guarding and waiting are replaced by the constant shuttling of mom and dad bringing fresh food gathered from the spring lawn (see food photo).

End Week Six—no baby birds, an empty nest. Mom and dad robin, once again just female and male, perched in our yard, fending for themselves (see empty nest photo).

As I watched the birds care for their young, I witnessed subtle changes in their behavior after the eggs hatched. Initially they hovered. Provided warmth and protection to these bare, helpless bodies. Soon necks to the sky waiting for the next meal. Tufts of down were replaced by tiny feathers. Then the stretching began.

As the four chicks gained in size they took turns exercising. They’d trade places in the nest, come out to the edge, stretch their half-formed wings, peek over the edge, flap and cheep and then retreat to the hollow of the nest.

As the days progressed, I wondered when it would be time to leave. In fact I noticed that mom and dad robin spent less time around the nest. Part of that was practical; there wasn’t as much room now that their chicks had grown. But I think they stayed back to give them time and space to exercise, to reach, to look over the edge with wings outstretched.

I didn’t see them leave. I came home one day and they were gone. I’ve wondered what that scene was like. Did all four chicks fly away at once? Did some leave without coaxing? Did others need a push out of the nest? Did they need lessons in flight or did nature’s knowledge and their parent’s encouragement provide them the necessary faith to take that first leap, catch the wind and fly?

The lesson of my backyard, directs my mind and my prayers to moms and dads, sons and daughters. It’s uncanny how the rhythm of life for these birds and their young offspring is a compressed version of what’s going on in houses across the Northwest. All these years, preparing, caring, nurturing. Now it’s time for flight.

We casually call it “going to college”. But it’s so much more than that. Eager. Reluctant. Nudging. Expectant. All that effort and care—the preparing, the caring, the hovering, the testing, the years-long process of preparing them for flight. And now, it’s almost time. It’s a wonderful adventure, the flight to adulthood. Moms and dads have shared lessons of their flights, and now it’s their children’s turn.

A good number fly here, to NNU each fall. It’s a sight to behold. Some already soaring, others still stretching. We are poised to provide a place to land, to learn, to return in-between flights. I’ll see you all soon, and once again have the privilege of watching young people learn to fly!

I used to think that being a parent was like being an officer in the military. Children reporting for duty, commands to be given, orders to be followed, clean rooms ready for inspection. That was before my wife and I had children.

Now that I’m older, and occasionally wiser, I can reflect upon being a parent. This is what I know, being a parent is not like being a general in the military, it’s more like being a gardener in the field.

Have you ever held a seed in your hand and marveled at what, with the proper planting, watering, care, nutrients, weeding and protection, the seed might become? That is the mystery and privilege of parenting.

Parents don’t get to choose what sprouts and grows. Yet it is their duty and delight to foster the growth of those who’ve been entrusted to them.

The mystery of the garden, that is also the mystery of parenting, was brought home to me recently when I attended my son’s graduation from medical school—that’s him with me in the picture—I’m the proud one!

I marvel at that boy. What he’s become. I had no clue. And yet, there he is, blossoming, growing, flourishing. I was blessed to be a part of his growth, but it was not my doing. He made choices. He wrestled with options. He made friends, chose paths, chose a major (actually several majors). And here he is—my boy—the man.

The fact of the matter is, he was never mine. God entrusted him to his mother and me, but he was never ours, a thing to be possessed. He was placed in our care. We tended, nurtured, weeded, cultivated, but in the end it was him, with God’s creative gifts and graces, that brought about what he’s become.

I make this journal entry in the month of June because parents and children are sorting out what it means to graduate from high school and prepare to leave home. “Uprooted” is the first word that comes to mind. Maybe a better word is “transplanted”.

The point is Northwest Nazarene University wants to enter into covenant with you, parent and child. We stand ready to join you in the garden; for our hearts are committed to working in God’s vineyard. Jesus talked about abiding in the vine, pruning branches to bear more fruit, seeds dying in order to fulfill their destiny. We want to join with you in seeking to “grow up” into the full measure and stature of Jesus Christ.

I can’t wait for our new students to arrive! To meet parents who have labored in the field of their child’s life. To watch freshmen grow into seniors and beyond. To see the Hand of God in their lives, tending, nurturing, loving, pruning, growing. You are all in my prayers as the time to grow in a new field nears!