God Singer

I choose to think my son was serious about his spiritual need when he told me about the visit with the Chaplain. Since that time, Chris has gone through his inpatient evaluation, slept, eaten, slept and tried to read a page of The Road Less Traveled, which Chaplain Tom gave to him. Chris didn't make it to church that day. I don't know why I thought he'd keep that promise--he can't even go to an NA or AA meeting. Or maybe he won't go to any of it.
I have the feeling he is resisting treatment. Maybe he's simply afraid.
Change is hard on any of us. We're all so afraid. Afraid we won't make it, won't be good enough. Afraid God may not make it to where we are.
And yet I have found God when I was scared. I've been awed and speechless at the times when I least deserved to be admitted to where God was singing. Last week in church, feeling a touch of self-pity because Chris hadn't made it there with me, I sang the old hymn, "Immortal, Invisible," and the oddest thing happened.
I stood outside myself, outside everything. God and I, holding hands, watched the whole black universe shrink to a tiny dot. A singularity? I wanted to ask, but somehow to do so seemed as inappropriate as ringing cell phones in a movie theater.
The universe then re-expanded and the stars rushed past, back to their places. Instead of only holding God's hand, I was sort of with God, in God, around, through and part of God in a way that sounds sort of New Agey but wasn't. Suddenly shame and sorrow and regrets shriveled in front of my eyes. God sang, and every note of the song broke me, like a crystal goblet shattered by the high notes of an aria. I didn't want or need anything.
This only lasted long enough for me to recognize that here I was, insignificant, dangerously clueless me, right in God's arms. I wasn't "in" God, like a bump on God's big toe, as much as I became immersed in God. And as soon as I pled with myself never to leave, always to remain right there with God, the whole experience evaporated. I came to at the last verse of "Immortal," and I couldn't sing because my throat was thick with tears and joy. I thought of my son, struggling to beat this awful meth addiction, stuck in his own self-lies on his way to church. I hope you read the Road Less Traveled, Chris. On your journey, may you find that place where God sings your name.

The Soul Broken

A few days ago, my son went to see a buddy of mine who runs a prison ministry. He's been ordered into treatment and needed some financial help for the preliminary evaluation at the treatment center. He made it to see the jail chaplain, who wrote him a check for part of the cost. But somehow Chris skipped the evaluation appointment, as well as his midweek checkin with the probation officer. Chris was gone for several days, and I rehearsed my lines: "I'm letting you go, son," I would say when he came home to recover from what I assumed was another binge. "You can't live here anymore. Your dad and I won't be able to help you. Let us know when you get sober." I said these lines over and over. I knew he'd be back so I practiced detachment the best way I knew how. I prayed as if I had stalled the car in front of a fast-approaching train.
Of course he did come back. I held my emotions tight against my chest, trying to shield what was left of my heart. Chris climbed out of someone's crummy old Honda, but when he said hello, I knew he wasn't high. Confused, I tried to say as little as possible. I chanted my lines to myself, I'm letting you go, son. I'm letting you go. Suddenly exhausted I fled into my room He followed me and propped his elbow on the bed. I looked away.
Over the next few minutes, he told me about his failure to make the appointments for evaluation, how he'd blown off the PO. Same old sob story, I thought. I'm going to have to let you go.
Then he told the story about his meeting with the chaplain. Tears lit up his eyes in a way I hadn't seen from him in years. "Pastor said my soul is broken," he said. He paused."He says I need to go to church to get past this."
Later my son said he was awestruck. Out of all the counselors, shrinks, social workers and teachers who'd ever advised him, he said, "Pastor is the first person who really gets it. Gets who I am."
Chris says he'll go to inpatient treatment. I still guard my heart to keep from running toward the light of that hope. I know the ways of an addict, and those ways always serve their own needs. Sweet words have worked in the past, my cynical side says.
And yet, what if God really is the answer? I don't know yet. I will keep practicing my line and if he does not enter treatment as he says, I will use it and mean it, dear son. And no matter whether you get clean or not, something tells me that letting you go is the best thing I can do. Go with God.

Let Go the Spin

Just when I think I'm never going to make it, hope raises its stubborn head in the form of a friend. Or two. Or five. The same peers who last week had me hanging my codependent head (I'd told about some of my crazy mom-of-an-addict behaviors) have all changed their minds. Instead of needing a good swift kick in my enabling rear end, maybe I need a hug. Maybe I'm really doing the best I can.
Friends who were disgusted with me for how I behave with my meth-addict son are sorry they said so. But here's the thing. I don't blame any of them if they still think I'm an idiot (I am, quite often). My own mother often gives me the impression she thinks I'm brain dead when it comes to dealing with my adult children, but if I get my feelings hurt and cry she backs off and says, "I know you're doing your best."
I wonder if I am, doing my best, that is. Or am I allowing a million excuses to keep the status quo? One thing I've learned: we dysfunc-fams are good at spinning any situation. We're masters of taking a hair's breadth of positive behavior from the addict in our lives and exaggerating it into a life-changing moment. He got up today and ate something? He must be on the road to recovery. He hasn't been high in a week? God must be healing him.
We moms especially love to obsess and analyze and predict what our addict will do next. We're desperate to prove to ourselves that God is doing something, anything. How can I trust a God who doesn't heal, convict, or remove the pain for the addict or his loved ones, a God who stands there and appears to do exactly nothing?
I'm a bit resistant about twelve-step slogans, but Let go and let God makes sense. If I can ever stop helping, stop suggesting, stop rescuing, my son may have to face himself and his own consequences.
I resist because it's so much easier to do something than to do nothing. God could zap my son and make him well. God could shut me up and tie my hands and prevent me from doing one more thing. But God often makes the most difficult choice of all. Instead of barging in and taking charge, God stands on the side lines of my life, hands in His pockets, humming a tune. Once in a while, God shakes his head at my stubborn bent to help. But He never gets disgusted at me for my folly. God stands there, modeling the best and absolutely hardest thing to do for a loved one: Stand there, keep your hands to yourself and let go the spin. Thanks, God, thanks, friends. Hope is standing still.