Telltale Moments
When he came into this
world I held him in my arms, never wanting to let him go and today…
almost 17 years later I find the same feelings welling up inside of me.
“What’s wrong with
James?” my youngest daughter said.
“I don’t know,”
a lame reply, but it was the best I could give at the time.
I’ve learned over
the last 16 years, 8 months and 3 days, but who is counting, that my
first born does not like to be probed about his issues. In defense of my
motherly instinct to jump up from my computer and solve my oldest
child’s problems … I forced myself to merely casually observe him as
I walked back and forth from the kitchen, creating a need for a glass of
water. My youngest was right … something was wrong. James was
brooding.
I returned to my
computer allowing the better part of maternal valor to win my internal
struggles.
Minutes later my 6
foot tall brooding giant of my little man came in and stood beside my
computer chair. He loomed there in silence for a moment, or so, before
the soft words came out of his mouth.
“Lisa broke up with
me today,” is all he said. When I looked up at him his quiet green
eyes were rimmed in red and filled with the clear liquid of a broken
heart.
“I’m sorry
baby,” I said as I stood, wrapping my arms around him and letting his
silence linger. He was more like me then I had realized. He cried in
silence, hands or were they fists, stuffed in his pants pockets,
slouching he rested his head on my shoulder.
My normal instinct to
fix “it” no matter what “it” is did not swell to overflowing
within me. I stood holding my son for minutes without saying a word. I
waited for him to speak, for him to share.
He shifted his head,
turning it so he could speak, but still be cradled in the crick of his
mommy’s neck, “this hurts more than I ever thought it would.”
“Yes, baby, it
does,” I said softly tightening my arms that encircled him, hoping to
reassure him of his security. “Isn’t
it amazing how a muscle in your chest can hurt so much,” I said in
almost a whisper, speaking to the analytical side of my son. I felt the
tension in his body recede slightly. “Now you know why they call it a
broken heart.”
“She said that the
Bible tells her that we can’t be in a relationship together because we
don’t have the same beliefs,” he divulged through clenched teeth.
I was at a loss for
words. I knew he was looking for answers; from me. Thoughts ran through
my mind. Say the right thing
here… this is a make it or break it moment. I knew what I said
would be important -- to my son, to our mother/son relationship, to the
success or failure of my son coming to his mother in his time of need.
My silence allowed him the window to speak. He spoke two words.
“That’s
communist.” The words were filled with hatred.
“It’s not
communist son,” I said at almost a whisper. He raised his head and
pulled his torso back so he could look into my eyes.
“Do you know what
communist means?”
I quickly tried to
wrap my mind around the word like a 16-year-old, not a 43-year-old,
“Yes Love, it means controlling.”
“Yah and that book
is communist!”
“No Love, it is not
communistic.” I said keeping my voice soft and my tone light,
emphasizing the “istic” part of the word, hoping to teach him to
learn to use his vocabulary correctly. “It is her belief and her faith
is important to her. It has been all along.” My mind raced. Knowing my
son’s belief in God was under construction.
“It’s not fair,”
his tears not being hidden anymore, “I believed her when she said she
loved me.” His face contorted; as he looked at me I saw the confusion
fill his eyes. I silently prayed I would say the right thing.
“She did love
you,” I let the rest of my thought lay silent: who
couldn’t love you. It was not time to be playful or mushy. It was
time to support his upbringing, his halted faith and his broken heart. I
needed to build upon the foundation of blind faith that I had been
showing my son his entire life. A blind faith he admitted he did not
understand.
I thought about
repeating one of my favorite isms, “Like Pope John Paul said, as long
as we are all heading towards God, the same God, what does it matter if
you are Catholic, Jewish, Protestant, or Baptist?” but I decided
against it. Instead I replied, “I don’t agree with that.” What
else do you say to a boy who is questioning faith, questioning God, not
his existence but questioning a God who would put qualifiers on love? It
was time for tangible examples.
“If that were true
then Uncle Frank and Aunt Myra would not be making it. He is not a
Muslim like she is. But they both believe in God and that is what is
important there.” Not knowing if that was the right answer I stayed
silent letting him digest the example, hoping it was the right one.
He laid his head back on my shoulder, his body a smidge less
tense. My gut said silence would be the best medicine. I let the silence
and my comforting hold do their work. Minutes passed, I desired to
change his painful focus.
“What time is your
meet today?”
“I don’t know. I
don’t care.”
“Then you need to
call Summer and find out when you need to be at school.
“I really don’t
want to go,” he said making me remember Lisa was on the swim team
too.”
“When did this
happen?”
“Today at noon,”
he said with puppy dog sadness in his eyes.
“Well
that wasn’t very nice of her. Couldn’t she wait?” I knew it was a
rhetorical question, but my son’s eyes telegraphed that he had been
thinking the same thing.
My mind raced again.
Teenagers, why couldn’t they think past themselves? Bet she forgot
she’d have to see him this afternoon at the meet. I searched my
memories to high school break-ups… track and field meets I had to
attend after a break-up. I didn’t have a lot of time to ponder. My son
was looking to me for guidance, for permission to not go, but this was
another life defining moment and that is what I focused on.
“Go call Summer and
be a big boy,” here was my chance at interjecting humor at the
‘right’ moment, “and go shave your legs.” I smiled up at him
with a glint of playfulness. He looked at me with a doubtful ‘oh, come
on mom’ look just before he slowly turned to keep his obligations to
the team.
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