I have an adult child whose path was not anticipated. I have spent years of my life with eyes wide open in the dark; my mind filled with questions and self recrimination, my heart in a cold steel box that pinched.
In the end, my hopes and dreams were not his. I can neither fault him nor help him. I can only love him, pray for him, cry with him in my solitude. He struggles and chokes as he walks forward, but forward he does walk.
After looking at the incredible messes I managed to live through, I suppose I had choices. At the time it did not seem like much of it was a choice. Quicksand was where I often lived and I am still there. Mostly I have learned to stand on a rock.
I have worked hard at being happy or at least content. It is what I have learned to choose… to be at least content if not happy. It is a choice I make several times a day… Caught in tangled thread I can struggle as I twist in the wind or I can enjoy the ride and relish the view. My best hope for him is that he can learn to do something similar.
So my son goes forward on a self made raft of twigs. I quietly rejoice with him in his joy and cry with him in his sorrow while I watch him paddle with his hands. I could not love him more. I applaud his right to survive on what ever vessel he has fashioned. He says he was born without oars. Who am I to question that?
Ma used to say that we were not hers… that God had only given us to her for a little while. It used to really bother me but now I understand it well.
(This was prompted by the “Silent No More” essay written by Duke.)
