Opinions expressed in this piece are solely those of the author.
We never saw it coming. When he slipped into our arms, that blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked infant, it was awe that overwhelmed us. We counted his fingers and toes. We inhaled his scent. Standing in a hospital room, I held my newborn with his headful of dark hair pressed into the curve of my neck. The light fluttering of his baby breath on my cheek felt like the brush of angel wings. We were completely in love.
Somewhere post high school, cracks began to appear, troubling signs that all was not well. First tobacco, then alcohol, then pot use and on. For 13 years, we watched our oldest son implode, helpless to stop his spiral into full-blown drug addiction and eventual homelessness.
My goal in this essay is not to retell his story. What I want to do is offer help and consolation to other parents who find themselves in this difficult situation. Though I am not a trained counselor, I am a mother with experience, and it is that well from which I draw today.
One of the big things we learned was that there was a fine line between enabling and helping. Naturally, everything within us longed to protect him from consequences. For a time, we did. I thought of it as following him about with pillows, slipping them beneath his buns to cushion his falls. When we saw that it was not helping, but actually hindering him, we changed.
For instance, there came a point where we had to evict him from our home. We were devastated and terrified, but we still had minor children in the house, and we simply could not allow him to stay here in light of his awful choices. We felt helpless, not knowing where he would go or what he would get into on his own. Yet for me, there was a sense of emotional relief because I didn’t have to see the trouble he was getting into.
Even though we had to practice this “tough love,” our hearts were wholly open to him, and we longed for his redemption. Our relationship with him was of the utmost importance, and so where some would cut the addict off for good, we never did. For years, we reached out to him as we felt compelled. For instance, we bought him a bed when we learned he was sleeping on a mattress on the floor in a filthy apartment. We took him for dinner that night, then left him in his squalor and went home, hearts heavy.
No matter what he did or where he went, we kept our end of the bridge open so that one day when he was ready, there would be a pathway back. Time proved that this was an incredibly wise choice.
Meanwhile, we kept working on our marriage, and we focused on our other children. It was the dawning realization that we had no control over our renegade son that invited us to look at our own baggage. The helplessness that we felt sent us running into the arms of a God we were learning to trust at an ever-deepening level, for only he could intervene and move our mountains. That’s why, even before our son had returned to us, I could (and did) say to him, “I am thankful for your journey, son, because of the good work that it’s done in your dad and I.”
I can never tell our story without emphasizing the role of faith in our lives. The extended nature of the trial did a work of refining and strengthening within us that perhaps nothing else could have. We learned how to pray. We learned to know God in new and powerful ways. We learned that even when he seemed silent, he was still at work. Even though we could not see it, and that right there is faith.
My husband struggled with despair. I felt its tug, and yet I knew it was too costly. It was a price I could not afford to pay, and so I would say to him, “There’s no actual reason for despair. It only looks like it.” Though uttered in the fire, those words were true. It was that lifeline of faith that sustained me and kept my head above the waters.
Somewhere in those difficult years, something else happened. I began to see—really see—those around me. At the supermarket, at the coffee shop. At the mall, at the sandwich shop. My eyes would alight on someone nearby, and, feeling the nudge, I would engage them. Over and over, I found that they were the hurting, the marginalized, the invisible, or simply a soul in need of love, and so I gave them the nugget that I had.
Before my own prayers were answered, and before my own son had returned, I poured love into the sons and daughters of other mothers. And God, seeing my sowing, gave me the harvest. Sowing and reaping, it came back to me. My son is now sober and clean. Thank you, God.
I cannot say how your story will end. I cannot promise that your addict will find healing and redemption like mine did, but I can tell you this. If you will entrust your child to God; if you will do the deep, inner work that you need; and if you will keep your end of the bridge open, you just may find yourself with a miracle on your hands.
Meanwhile, sow into those around you. Sow love, and life, and wisdom, and light. Sow, and see what the reaping will be.
Lastly, if you will choose to trust God, then know this: “There’s no actual reason for despair. It only looks like it.”
God bless you and your loved one.
You can find much more of America’s small, caffeinated mom over here. She appears weekly on the syndicated James Golden Radio Show to discuss the topic of the week with the host.
