Presence

It was 12:03 a.m. after all the fireworks had ended, and my son was swearing and crazy eyed. Ben called me to come over. I thought immediately of a mother who told me her son had rolled his truck and is now paralyzed but his two friends in the car had died that day. With her words “you just don’t know what tomorrow will bring” fresh in my mind from work, I helped my son in to the shower and whispered, “What did you take?”

As if these four spoken words brought great comfort to my son's blurry head, he began to tell me. That is when I studied his face. Every eyelash. Every mole. Every curve of his big, beautiful smile. I yearned to soak up every detail of his seventeen-year-old self.

Now don’t get me wrong—there have been plenty of nights with sick boys where I have been impatient, exasperated, and unsympathetic—quickly rushing them off to bed so I could get back to sleep as quickly as possible. But on this night, one of my dear patients reminded me that today was not a day to hurry. Although my eyes stung from lack of sleep, I felt a sense of peace; I didn't want to be anywhere else.

Unexpectedly, my son’s eyelids flew open. As if the mushroom the stranger at the park had given him was acting as a stimulant, he was suddenly in the mood to talk. Oblivious to the fact that the clock flashed digits that should only be seen in the p.m. time frame, this boy had many expletives.

What began as a steady stream of profanity from his mouth lead me to an unforgettable realization about living a meaningful life in the time we are given.

So often life gets lost among the excess, the hurry, the agendas … smashed beneath the posting of brilliantly-worded status updates and compliment-worthy images. And when life gets lost, it’s easy to forget why we’re here. It’s so damn easy to forget the whole point of this precious thing called ‘life’ – which is to help each other live each precious day rather than just merely survive.   

I should know.

In fact, life got so far away that I forgot its name – and it forgot mine. Life was so far gone that I didn't even notice it had left me – or that I had left it – until I could no longer hold up my perfectly orchestrated life. And when I let everything fall, I could see that among all that “stuff,” the most important thing was missing.

Life

I knew I must do everything in my power to get it back – for it wouldn't be long until the things that made life worth living would be irretrievable.

That’s when I accepted the fact that I was the only one who could help my precious son again. And when I did, I vowed to keep at it – to never again be so careless with something so precious.

Because I want him to count …

The kisses
The hugs
The “I am here” whispers in the dark

The light in my eyes when I see him
The I love you’s
The heart–to-heart talks

The comfort
The patience
The laughter
The nearness
The love …
So he knows exactly how important he is to me every single day.

On the night of his trip to the ER, my son finally stopped talking and succumbed to sleep. But I sat wide awake staring at his big hand that clung lovingly to mine despite my past failings.

And that is when I realized one more glorious thing about life.

It is not a contest; it is not a competition. There are no tally marks; there is no grading system; there are no awards. Life doesn't work like that.

By the grace of God, any act of love and any offering of genuine presence – no matter how small or how imperfect – counts. And what’s more is that I can start keeping track of life anytime, anywhere—despite what happened yesterday.

In fact, I can start right now.

I won’t wait for a new day to make the moments count.

I started today.

Started with kisses and hugs and words of love.

Perhaps it is time to find life again.

Morg is teaching me the one and only thing I really needed to know about loving a child through the challenges of life.

But I couldn't help but feel that I had failed him … that I should have done more or said more … that I should have fixed the situation, or better yet, prevented the situation.

Morg eventually came back to consciousness. I quickly noticed that when he came back from his CT scan, he unexpectedly grabbed my hand. It is unusual for a boy his age and size to hold his mom’s hand, but I knew I must act like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And then he leaned in and quietly said something I will never forget.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” he whispered. And then I said, “I'm sorry too.”

Part of me wanted to ask, “Why?”

But instead I simply relished the moment—an unimaginable breakthrough from the woman who always asks questions. Besides, I knew the turning point. Things changed the day he ran, and I ran after him—even though I didn't have the right words … even though I wasn't able to save him from the mess he was in.

It was the day I didn't throw my hands up in the air deciding he was too fast … a waste of time and effort …  a lost cause.

It was the day my mere presence was enough to make a profound difference.

And I think of that when those really hard parenting dilemmas come my way—problems either from inside and outside of the home—issues that make me want to beat my head against the wall or lower it in despair. I think of Morgen in those moments when I don’t know what to do or what to say when I look into my son’s soulful eyes.

That is when I see his face and remember I don’t always have to have the answer. Because sometimes there is no clear-cut answer.

And I remember I don’t always have to “fix” their troubled hearts. Because there will be times when I can’t.  

I think of last night and remember the power of presence. Because it’s possible to say, “I won’t let you go through this alone,” without muttering a single word.

Thank you, Morg, for teaching me the key to loving a child through the challenges of life.

Sometimes mere presence is enough.

Sometimes it is exactly what is needed to change a dismal situation into one of hope.

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