Enough

I don’t like to leave the ranch overnight during the winter.

The water lines could freeze, the cows could get out, or a big snow storm could push the sheep into a pasture corner.

Or a situation I have yet to consider could jump up and slap me in the face.

Let’s just say the ranch functions during the winter, but it requires far more attention to the details.

But I tripled fed, called my go-to friend to do chores, and left for not one, but two nights last weekend.

Would it be enough?

Then I watched a boy turn into a man.

As I sat at a crowded table in a Bozeman ice cream shop, surrounded by people who love this man, I wondered when this transformation took place.

I watched him balance a myriad of competing conversations with grace, confidence and humility.

The questions flew – many of them were the same ones he had answered over and over, yet he patiently repeated his answers.

The advice came on strong -- adults just can’t help themselves. He listened to the advice, managed to acknowledge the validity of most of it, and then explained his next step on the path he forged himself.

I sat back and thought about the 8-year-old who dashed along the ridgetop at sunset as we gathered sheep. When night fell into pitch black darkness, he held his pregnant mother’s hand and pointed out distant lights.

“That’s Conrad, Mom. If we walk toward those lights, we’ll get to our house before then,” he coached.

I remembered the shy 10-year-old boy who didn’t know how to accept a compliment from other students. His eyes cast down as they spoke until they finally drifted away.

I thought about the 11-year-old who spent two weeks helping his mother put a tin roof on the house, pushing hard to finish just in time to visit his dad in spite of the heat and the frustrations that come with no idea whatsoever about how to complete the job. Fortunately, the manual had clear instructions.

I thought of the 14-year-old who listened to a couple of retired fighter pilots as they described their distinct paths into the stratosphere. Among their words of wisdom, the boy mapped his own path, step by step.

Then he took each step. He became physically fit. He learned the necessary theories and processes of the universe. He spent every dime to earn a private pilot’s license. He rose early and went to bed late.

In that Bozeman restaurant, as he leaned in and looked each of his friends and relatives in the eye, I realized it was enough.

This man would make it.

The next day, he stood ramrod straight as his uncle, once a marine always a marine, saluted this freshly commissioned second lieutenant.

Others watched with me, after coming from far away.

Time was short – there’s never enough.

The people who love the man wanted to be close, touch, connect to him.

Hoping everyone would understand that he knows they love him and appreciates their presence, I worried that a few brief moments for each of them would not be enough.

How could I manage him, even suggest who needed more attention?

But these were his people, there for him.

This was his celebration, not mine.

Let it go, I told myself. Don’t hinder his dreams. Let him fly.

As I let go, and watched his people bask in his attention, I quit worrying, managing and suggesting.

Now I get to stand back and bask in the moments he offers to me.

It is enough.