The Art of Trusting the Young Ones

The world today feels like it's holding on to its young 'uns tighter than a tick on a hound dog. Now, I ain't saying keeping tabs on your young folks is all bad, but there's a difference between caring and downright hovering. Back in my day (though maybe not as simple as we'd like to remember), folks had fewer ways to keep track of their kids. You just hollered up the stairs or waited by the party line till you heard their voice. Simplicity itself, almost like a natural kind of radar.

Take my Uncle Lars, for instance. He had a real knack for knowing what his kids were up to without all this fancy technology. He'd just stand by the kitchen window, sipping his coffee, while they dashed around outside. He'd claim he could sense when something was off, like a human weather vane. And as much as I teased him about being a low-tech version of Spidey, there was something admirable in just trusting the kids to come back home safe and sound.

Now, here we are with these apps that show you the exact whereabouts of your young'un. Some folks get a kick out of knowing their kids are at a Wetherspoons (which, I have to clarify, isn’t a mystical land but a rather ordinary restaurant chain). Reminds me of when Aunt Marge sent me cookies while I was away at college, except nowadays she'd probably send a pizza to my table through an app.

Dr. Brunet, a wise soul (though let's not pretend all wisdom comes with a degree), suggests we might need to let the kids fly free. It's like building a barn. You want the thing to stand on its own, not get blown over because you hovered around too much. (There I go, comparing kids to barns again.)

I often ponder how we've shifted from giving independence, like teaching kids to ride a bike and letting 'em pedal down the street, to digitally tracking them like they're on an invisible leash. Maybe it's the world's unpredictable nature. But, are we teaching them to cope with life's gusts, or just sheltering 'em from the breeze?

Thinking about this, I'm reminded of Pastor Olson's potluck sermons (hear me out). He'd talk for hours about faith and community. Though those gatherings had more layers than Grandma's Jell-O salad, they reminded us to trust in something bigger than us, each other.

We folks from small towns, whether it's Norwegians eating lefse at a church social or Lutherans sipping coffee with a side of gossip, understand that community means trust. Trust in our children, our neighbors, and the notion that if someone's in need, we'll be there quicker than a cat on a hot tin roof.

So maybe we should take a page from Uncle Lars’ book, watch from the window with confidence, and trust that when the sun sets, that old porch light will guide 'em back home safe. With a little humor and a good measure of trust, we might just find that letting go here and there ain’t as daunting as it seems.

In those moments, when we're chewing over life's quirks like Pastor Olson's marathon monologues, maybe we glean a bit of that old-time wisdom. We chuckle, shake our heads, and let the kids learn to navigate this world, hoping they find their way back by the light of whatever guiding star they follow, be it digital or good old-fashioned intuition.