James Ryan

With that in mind, I'd like to revisit a letter that I wrote some time ago when my own son, Ryan, left home for college. His older sister had taken the same journey several years earlier, which meant that Ryan's departure officially qualified Shirley and me as "empty nesters.
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Then a few years later, a little lad named James Ryan made his grand entrance, and it all happened again. He was my boy - the only son I would ever be privileged to raise. What a joy it was to watch him grow and develop and learn. How proud I was to be his father - to be trusted with the well-being of his soul. I put him to bed every night when he was small, and we laughed and we played and we talked to Jesus. I would hide his sister's stuffed animals around the house, and then we turned out the lights and hunted them with flashlights and a toy rifle. He never tired of that simple game. But the day for games has passed.
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We took Ryan to the airport and sent him off to Colorado for a five-week summer program. Then in August, he plans to enter his freshman year at a college in the Midwest. Though he will be home periodically for years to come, our relationship will not be the same. It might be even better, but it will certainly be different. And I have never liked irreversible change.

Though I knew this moment was coming for many years, and I had helped others cope with similar experiences, I admit freely that Ryan's departure hit me hard. For the past two weeks, we have worked our way through a massive accumulation of junk in his room. Ryan is a collector of things no one else would want - old street signs, broken models and favorite fishing rods. The entire family took tetanus shots and we plunged into the debris. Finally last night, Shirley and Ryan packed the remaining boxes and emptied the last drawer. The job was finished. His suitcases were packed. Our son was ready to go.

Ryan came into my study about midnight, and we sat down for another of the late-night chats that I have cherished. He always liked to talk at the end of the day.
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When Ryan boarded that plane in Los Angeles, I comprehended anew the brevity of life and the temporary nature of all things. As I sat on the floor in his room, I heard not only Ryan's voice but the voices of my mother and father who laughed and loved in that place. Now they are gone.
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This has been such a special time for us with Jim and Shirley and their children.
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Our son, Ryan, is now married to Laura and they are raising a beautiful son of their own. It seems like only yesterday that little Lincoln was a newborn baby, and yet he's already running and talking and doing the things that ambitious toddlers do. Ryan is a very effective speaker, has a program called KOR Ministries on Internet radio, and has written four books for young people. He is a very busy man.

My question was answered five years later when a little lad named James Ryan made his grand entrance into the world.I fell in love all over again.He was my boy â€" the only son I would ever be privileged to raise.What a joy it was to watch him grow and develop and learn.How proud I was to be his dad â€" to be trusted with the well-being of his soul.I put Ryan to bed every night when he was small, and we laughed and we played and we talked about Jesus.I would hide his sister's stuffed animals around the house, and then we would turn out the lights and go "big game hunting" with flashlights and a toy rifle.Ryan never tired of that simple game.
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It was very difficult for Shirley and me to let her go, but we took comfort in the fact that Ryan had five more years at home.But again, the years passed in a blur of activity, and Ryan began thinking about going off to college some two thousand miles away.This time, however, there was no one at home to fill the void he would leave.
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Ryan had been a collector of things no one else would want â€" old street signs, broken models and favorite fishing rods.The entire family got tetanus shots before we plunged into the debris.Finally, on our last evening together, Shirley and Ryan loaded the remaining boxes and emptied the last drawer.The job was finished.His suitcases were packed.Our son was ready to go.

Ryan came into my study about midnight, and we sat down for another of the late-night chats that I had cherished over the years.He has always liked to talk at the end of the day.
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Ryan was to depart from Gate 18, but I couldn't sit and cry in the waiting area.So I took a long walk through the concourse and returned as the passengers were boarding.Then we hugged good-bye and sent our youngest off to Chicago.I knew that Ryan would be home many times after that, but being on his own would change both of us forever.
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In the larger sense, however, it is not merely the end of formal parenting that shook my world when Ryan left.I grieved for the human condition itself.When he boarded that plane in Los Angeles, I comprehended anew the brevity of life and the temporary nature of all things.Later, as I sat on the floor in his room, I heard not only Ryan's voice, but also the voices of my mother and father, who laughed and loved in that place.Now they were gone too.
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Shirley and I talk with or hear from Danae and Ryan nearly every day, and we are so proud of them both.

James Ryan, London