By Brett Lawrence

As close as I can estimate, I've rebounded about 1 million shots since my son, Cameron, decided that basketball was his passion after his 7th-grade season in 2011. There were summer days that he put up 2,000+ shots, and I got to be there for almost all of them, grabbing the rebound, passing the ball back, grabbing the rebound, rinse and repeat. Even during basketball season, Cam put up 500 shots a day, and he rarely took a day off, including during holidays and vacations.

I watched him work and grind and put his body though pain, all in an effort to be the best player he could possibly be. The gym has, for all these years, been Cam's sanctuary, his safe space. He's gone there when he's happy. He's gone there when he's sad. He's gone there when he's angry. I'd guess he's spent more time in the gym these past six years than anyplace else, save perhaps sleeping in his bedroom.

Cam's work ethic has taken us to gyms all over the country, allowing me to rebound for him in Chicago; Indianapolis; Boston; Atlanta; Tampa; Charleston, SC; and Cleveland, Cincinnati, Columbus, and Warren, OH.

So, yesterday, on Cam's last full day living in our house, we decided to go to "our place" and do what we've done so often these past six years. He shot. I rebounded. Father and son. Something that, once upon a time, seemed like an enormous sacrifice. An hour, two hours, sometimes four hours a day during the summer, chasing down errant basketballs, firing passes, shot, rebound, shot, rebound, shot, rebound.

I didn't think much about the impending end to our ritual during his senior basketball season. I continued to regularly rebound for him as the end of his high school career beckoned. Then, as high school sports seasons are wont to do, it was over. Unceremoniously. Suddenly. You don't walk into the gym on a Monday evening with your son, the day before a big tournament game, and suggest that this might be the last time the two of you shoot and rebound together. In fact, I never even considered it at the time. But just like that, the season was over, and with it, our daily shooting habit. Cam got his first job, graduation came and went, college tuition deposits were paid, dorm assignments made.

And boom, just like that, here we are. I write this as Cameron Chase, my firstborn, sleeps in his bedroom for the last time as a full-fledged, card-carrying member of our home. Sure, he'll be home for holidays and breaks and, we hope, for a summer or two, provided a too-good-to-pass-up internship in another city doesn't come calling. But whether he returns for a few days or a few months, things will be different. It won't be my boy returning home, it will be my adult son. And that's an amazing, wonderful thing. It's also a little sad, too.

Tonight, I sat next to him in bed, rubbing his back one last time as he drifted off to sleep, and all the memories came flooding back. Reading him to sleep to the sounds of "Goodnight Moon." Listening to my wife sing him lullabies, including his favorite, "He Knows My Name." All the nights I came into his room hours after he'd gone to sleep to make sure the covers were just right or to just watch him sleep for a while. Sometimes, sitting there and quietly praying for my boy while he dreamed of basketball.

As a dad, I'm not quite sure how to feel. Every year around this time, I read gads of Facebook posts and blogs online from moms who wrestle unsuccessfully with saying goodbye to their college-bound sons and daughters, but I rarely, if ever, remember reading anything from fathers. This year's been no different. Moms everywhere seem to be in tears, in a heap, or both. So you can imagine my surprise as I've found myself right there with the sisterhood. Everything was fine till Friday. Then the levee broke. It's been Niagara Falls ever since. But somehow, I'm cognizant that these tears are different, that they represent a different kind of grief. A joyful, expectant, grateful grief. There's a sort of contemplative mourning over what was and what is no more, commingled with a deep, abiding sense of appreciation for the gift of having been Cam's dad for the past 18 years. As a father, I've worked for nearly two decades to prepare Cam for THIS day — for the day he'd be on his own —and to no one's surprise but mine apparently, that day is here.

"But somehow, I'm cognizant that these tears are different, that they represent a different kind of grief. A joyful, expectant, grateful grief. There's a sort of contemplative mourning over what was and what is no more, commingled with a deep, abiding sense of appreciation for the gift of having been Cam's dad for the past 18 years."

I'm proud to say that my boy is ready. He's intelligent. Kind. Patient. Loving. The kind of kid who, even in his senior year of high school, would give his mom or dad a kiss on the cheek when we dropped him off at school. The kind who still takes time to visit with his grandparents and make them feel important. The kind who's learned to persevere and not give up when things are hard — he has what psychologists like to call "grit." He's developed tremendous leadership qualities, consistently putting others before himself, and he's growing a Micah 6:8 kind of heart: "To love mercy, do justice, and walk humbly with God."

It's bittersweet to recognize that my work here is nearly done. Sure, I'll always be Cam's dad, but my time as his "parent" is just about over. I don't know what this new role looks like yet, but for the next 24 hours or so, life will continue as we've known it for the past 18 years and five months. I'll check on Cam tonight after he's fallen asleep, making sure the sheets and blankets are just so. He'll wake up in the morning, and we'll eat breakfast together as a foursome one final time. And then, we'll hop in the car for the three-hour drive to Pittsburgh to move him into his new home. He'll meet his roommate, organize his room, do the obligatory freshmen-orientation dance, and then we'll say our goodbyes before embarking on the longest 3-hour ride of our lives.

All of which brings me back to Saturday's visit to the gym with my boy. Standing there, rebounding 500 3-pointers for no particular reason other than the opportunity to spend time with my son, reminded me of the words of the prophet Zachariah, who wrote, "Who dares despise the day of small things ... ." Those million rebounded shots were scattered amid thousands of hours of time spent together and hundreds of trivial and not-so-trivial conversations that established a father-son bond that neither time nor distance can erase.

Neither of us said much during our time in the gym on Saturday, but we didn't really have to. Saturday's session was an ode to where we've been, to all of the time spent together, and to the memories we've made in the midst of it all. And all those rebounds? They're an incredibly fitting metaphor for what comes next: I can't take or make the shots for Cam as he navigates his way through adulthood. I can't visit the locker room or talk to the coach. Can't diagram plays during timeouts. But every once in a while, he may need a rebounder. Someone who will take the time to just come to the gym and be present in the midst of the toil. To take a peek at his shot to make sure the mechanics look OK and to grab an occasionally errant ball and pass it back with some words of encouragement and a reminder that he'll make the next one.

I'm pretty confident I can do that. It is, after all, something I've practiced a million times.