My miracle

I woke up with a gasp, sat straight up, and grabbed my quite swollen stomach. It was not the baby who had awoken me. It was a dream. A reoccurring nightmare of sorts. Scott jumped as well asking what it was. In a loud sob I exclaimed "They are going to kill him." And I prayed. "God please help. Help him. Save him. Do what ever you have to do in his life, but spare his life. Spare his life."

I was up then. The dream, if you want to call it a dream, always left me with a coldness that refused to leave. It was about him. He was in a room. A group of them were in a dark and cold room. Drugs and drug stuff scattered around them. The shadows drew my attention. The shadows seemed to move the hands. The faces of the people looked so lost. So dead. My heart burst open. I walked out into my living room. I wrapped a blanket around me and sobbed. I prayed and held down the vomit rising in my throat. I saw looking so lost and so void of hope. He was stuck. He was dying.

I loved him so much. But he wasn't the kid I grew up with. Sure, we had always had our differences. We were both stubborn as mules. We both stood our ground. He went one way and I another. I couldn't tell you the day or the time when we lost him. But I knew we had.

He carried death in his eyes. We saw it coming. I often would say to my husband "He is going to die. I see it." And then I would pray and beg for mercy. "Take anything from him you need to get his attention. But spare his life." He would come to my house. My eyes always went to his arms. Did the marks look new? Look to his eyes. How red were they? Listen to his voice. Was he going to be ok? I never liked the answer my heart gave.

I would prepare myself for bad news. I started refusing to answer the phone. I told my husband that he could be the one to break the news to me. That he was gone. Every time the phone would ring I would stop breathing. I would picture the funeral in my mind trying to prepare. What would I do to help my mom? What would I say. I knew death was so close. The fear would be paralyzing. A cold dark shadow that was squeezing out his life and tugging at everyone around his.

I got a phone call at work. From my husband. He had been taken by ambulance. He knew nothing other than that. Although he didn't seem good. I rushed home. I tried to get ahold of my mom and nothing. I went home and laid on the couch. Holding my stomach. Trying to calm myself at least for the baby's sake. I tried to tell myself it would be ok. It had to be ok. A knock at my door. I ran. My mom. How did I know, she asked. He was at the hospital. They brought him back. I put on my shoes and out the door.

When I saw him my heart broke. He was arguing that he was fine. He had hit his head and nothing more. The doctor knew. The police asked him if anyone had forced him to take anything. No was his answer. They left. And then us. Suddenly my relief was flooded with anger. I yelled "How could you keep doing this to us? What is wrong with you?" He looked at me with such anger. His reply. It is my life. It has nothing to do with you. Nothing....

I went home. Sobbing again. Praying again. Wanting for this to be over. And yet so badly not wanting it to be over. "Save him God. Where are you? Help him. Spare him."

Days, weeks, months came and went. Time passes even when you think it never will. Finally, I get a call so very early in the morning. Please bring money. If I didn't, he would be stuck there for a long time. I wanted so bad to help him. So bad to save him. "I can't. I am sorry." He said, "Okay, I guess it might be awhile before I see you again." I hung up the phone and cried. Cried so hard into my pillow. "God help."

My mom goes to see him. He has made a decision. He is going into treatment. If he didn't do something he knew that he would be dead. For the first time in years, I took a deep breath. "Please," was my only prayer. 

Almost 2 years later, he was coming home. It used to physically hurt to look into his eyes. Before help came, his eyes were dark. Deep. Dead. Of you looked at him, it was like looking at a ghost. Someone who had nothing there. And now, as I looked at him, another sob caught in my throat. His eyes. It was almost unreal. The light. The newness. The life! The scars had closed over and healed. There was something about him. He was here. He was whole. And all he could say was "All Glory to God." He was lost but now he is found. He was blind but now he can see.

 "But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found." Luke 15:32

Another year later and I thank God everyday. He is new and whole. He laughs and sings. Hold my kids close and offers help and encouragement. Reaching out to the lost and telling others of the good news he has found.

Do I believe in miracles? Of course. I have seen him.