Is the signal strong enough?

One of the main recurring topics of conversation I have with my Jewel, now 20 and nearly halfway done with college, is how it will feel when the education phase of life is over and adult life begins - irrevocable matriculation and separation. Potentially to the other side of the globe.

It is always a conversation that has an undercurrent of unease. The unease is not because I don't want her to do what she wants to do. It is precisely because I want her to do what she is called to do, knowing full well that if I do my job as the dad, and she responds the way I want her to as the daughter, that is going to lead her down a lifelong path that diverges from my own every-day existence. And she may end up on the other side of the globe. 

When she was growing up, it became a running joke that, whenever we got into the car together, my Bluetooth stereo would always default to connect to HER iPhone and start playing HER music, despite the fact that I was the only one in my car 75% of the time. Why did it choose her phone and her music over mine? I would feign anger in the way dads do. But she knew I was never actually angry. Even so, I was never particularly reticent about re-connecting my own phone to get back to my own musical tastes once I had dropped her off to wherever it is teenagers go.

It is 5 a.m. I am driving her to the airport. She is about to hop on a flight to LA to see her wonderful aunt, uncle, and their beautiful little girls during her spring break - one of her favorite things in the world to do - but it also meant she would not be with us for the week. We were reflecting once again on what it means to have a calling in life and how to reconcile that with whatever it is we consider "home" when the two are not the same paradigm, time zone, or hemisphere. 

My car stereo once again prioritized her iPhone - "Trust in God" was our pre-sunrise soundtrack as we entered the airport departure circle.

There is a distant - but not inscrutable - perceived finality to these moments when we say "goodbye." Goodbye doesn't seem that final yet, but that it will be, soon. I'm proud of her, blazing a trail so different from my own, or that of my Beloved, but it means that physical separation is not far off.  

She gets out of my car and grabs her bag. We hug. She says, "I love you." She always says, "I love you." She always means it. It is lovely.

She walks into the airport. I can see her walking toward the gates. But, I notice, even with the increasing distance, my stereo is still connected to her iPhone. It is still streaming the worship song "Trust in God." (Do you?) 

This time, I didn't immediately switch the Bluetooth from her phone to mine. I let it stay connected. I can still see her walking away. She turns a corner. I know exactly where she is, but I can't see her. The Bluetooth signal starts to break up, comes back for a few seconds, and then breaks again. She is no longer visible, she is a hundred yards away, but fragments of her song still pop in and out. Hold on, just a few seconds longer. 

My car falls silent.