Lighthouse vs. Rescue Helicopter

Recently, I had the chance to visit Tybee Island on the eastern shores of Georgia, and right outside my bedroom window stood the Tybee Lighthouse. It was tall, steady, and impossible to ignore. The view was incredible, but the lighthouse hit me in the feels for a totally different reason.

A few months earlier, I had a conversation with my adult son that caught me off guard emotionally. I admitted I was not always sure where I was supposed to stand in our relationship now that he was growing up and out, which was exactly what he should be doing, even if a part of me would love to keep him small, curly-haired, and asking me to cut the crust off his sandwiches.

While trying to explain my feelings and not cry, which I failed at, I shared an example that changed everything for both of us. I told him I cannot be a rescue helicopter anymore. I cannot hover, spotlight every decision, fly into every storm, and try to pull him out of every difficult situation. That season has passed.

Now, I am a lighthouse. I stand in the same place. I shine my light. I do not chase him into the waves, but if he ever needs to find his way home, I am right here. Always. But it’s his job to look for the light.

That conversation brought freedom but also a lump in my throat. For me, the tension is in the letting go. Letting go of the little boy with the huge curious eyes who walked with me through one of the hardest seasons of my life and his. Letting go of the child who now somehow towers over me, just like that lighthouse towers over the shoreline. It is saying I’m here if you need me, while knowing that might not be as often as I would prefer.

For him, the tension is in the responsibility. To walk out into the unknown. To find adventure, to get lost, to hit storms, and maybe even to discover beautiful islands along the way. But to know that wherever he goes, he can still find home.

Now here is what I did not tell him that day, but I’ll tell you. This shift in parenting is just plain brutal. Who did we think we were, raising these incredible humans just so they could grow up and leave our houses and stop asking us where their shoes are? And who do they think they are, getting taller than us and actually knowing things? It is the strangest mix of emotions, being incredibly proud and incredibly emptied at the same time.

And for those of you with little ones still at home, let me say this. You are in the building years. The years of making snacks, driving carpools, listening to bedtime prayers, and doing laundry that somehow never ends. You are laying foundations you cannot see yet, but one day you will realize you built a lighthouse too.

What an honor it is to become the lighthouse. To stand firm on solid ground. Not to be afraid of the waves. Never to dim our light. To trust that everything we poured into them is guiding them more than we realize.

Whether your kids are grown and gone, halfway there, or still climbing into your bed at night, this season matters. And so does the next one. We do not stop being moms. We just learn how to shine instead of steer. And some days, that’s harder and holier than we ever expected.