Teach them how to say goodbye

I remember telling him goodbye and that I loved him.
Hearing the screen door slam behind him, he walked out of my life forever.
That moment has always stayed with me.

---

Several years ago, the musical Hamilton took the world by storm. I’ve always loved music for its storytelling power, but this was something different. Not only did the show sell out almost instantly, but there was a ticket lottery just to get the chance to buy a seat. It wasn’t just a hit—it was a cultural moment.

Like so many others, I gave the music a listen. In the final days of the CD era, I bought the soundtrack and played it in my car. Hamilton tells the story of Alexander Hamilton, one of America’s founding fathers. I was smitten—not just by the music, but by the history, which has always felt to me like the most relatable and real kind of story.

I found myself drawn to George Washington. A man of great humility, he led the country through revolution and into its fragile beginnings. And then—remarkably—he stepped down. He gave up power. One line from the musical hit me hard:
“We’ll teach them how to say goodbye.”

Washington understood that knowing when to leave—and how—is its own kind of wisdom. One of the final paragraphs from his Farewell Address struck me as especially moving:

"Though in reviewing the incidents of my administration I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert or mitigate the evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will never cease to view them with indulgence and that, after forty-five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself must soon be to the mansions of rest."

Ever since I first read those words, I’ve seen them as a lesson in parenting. Inevitably, we must say goodbye—and teach our children how to do the same. And when that time comes, we hope our flaws are overshadowed by our devotion, and that the burdens we’ve passed on are, by God’s grace, light enough for them to carry.

That story I began with—that was my final goodbye to my father. He was heading into surgery. Everyone around me said it was nothing serious. I treated it casually. I said goodbye lightly and coolly, without weight.
I go back to that moment often. I wonder what else I could’ve said. What would’ve lifted the burden I’ve carried since?

Life offered me a second chance to answer that question.

With my father gone, I clung to the only other man I had left in my life—my grandfather. He was sweet, intelligent, kind-hearted. We spent hours together, and he filled my heart with warmth. I gave that warmth back to him, and he understood fully what he meant to me. Yet when he passed, I wasn’t left with the comfort of closure. Instead, I felt the deep absence of the peaceful space he created for me with his presence.

So I’m left with this lingering question:
How do I teach my children how to say goodbye?

This thought lives with me every day. In parenting, I try to be deeply honest with my children. When I lead with a heavy hand, I explain myself—not to be excused, but so they don’t carry unnecessary resentment. When they hurt me, I tell them—not to guilt them, but to show myself humbled, trusting in their kind nature to redeem me from the pain.

In thought, word, and deed, I try to prepare them for the day I leave—when a slamming door might echo behind me.

This leaves me anchored in a quiet, persistent melancholy I can’t quite shake.

Still, in my devotion to them, I find hope. Like Washington, I pray that the “faults of incompetent ability will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself must soon be to the mansions of rest.”

But I am not George Washington.
I don’t know how to say goodbye.
That’s the truth.

What I do know is this: I have laid my heart bare. In the deepest places of love and devotion, I’ve never failed to let my children know what they mean to me. Other children may take better vacations, have better toys, live in nicer homes—but I take comfort in this:

No child will ever be more evidently, unmistakably loved.