The Tears of our Angels

When she called me, she was crying.

I tried to make her feel better with my favorite saying with teenagers, "There's only one victim here, and it's not you. It's me."

Still, it was hard for her not to feel like a victim; like something had been lost - or stolen.

Like that night her teenager took the car.

On the phone; her voice was choked with sadness. She cried about the loss of sweetness, of innocence, of trust. The memories of that purity, the images of Barbie parties and dancing, of girls in their sleepover pajamas. Of the tender grasp of a tiny hand in hers ... they seemed like a painful loss.

They were the tears of an angel. And one day, for her teenage daughter, they'll matter; they'll have real meaning.

I know this rite of passage. It's so hard.

With my teens, there were so many of those moments. When I thought that the sweetness of youth was forever lost. That they had fled from the land of Belle and The Beast, of Harry and Hermione, to a place where belief in magic was forsaken for risk and thrill.

Pivotal, youthful epiphanies - when they began to believe it would be more fun to hitchhike than to sit in the middle seat of the minivan.

I remember a long-ago Christmas Eve when I found myself in a parking lot filled with the flashing lights of police cruisers and the teary eyes of my seventeen-year-old boy. Looking back, I think it was when I first learned that love was stronger than disappointment.

That it needed to be.

There are few days when I don't think about that night. I became a better man. I stood next to my wayward son, in front of the policemen. There was an unspoken understanding between us: we'll get through this - together. And we did.

In some ways, our moment that night, standing together among the flashing lights, was more powerful and meaningful than times of innocence and bliss shared in the many years before.

Before 16. Before 17.

And so, I've learned about the teenage soul. That sweetness and innocence aren't really lost. They're still there. In memories of baseball games and Pokemon cards, in memories of holding hands from the car seat.

In unconditional love, sometimes hidden, but always there.

I should tell her again. That she's not really a victim. She's an angel.

And she can fly.