My adult middle son leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. “I’m not worried about getting it.” He raised his chin. “I’m immune.” He shrugged, but his cheeks were hollow and sharp, the way they get after he’s been on a binge. I hesitated. He had to be tweaking—the part when the methamphetamine […]
Category Archives: Waiting for Morning
The JUST Drawer
Despite the sunshine, the morning was late-winter crisp. As a friend and I ventured out for a walk, I poured out my heart. “All three of my sons are messes.” I pulled my woolen scarf higher around my neck. “And not one of them is willing to change. It’s like Russian roulette—do I wait for […]
Love’s Prism
My grown son ran outside to my car in the pouring rain, hauling in the bags of groceries I’d just bought. Before I could ask, he polished the silver for the holidays and then vacuumed the carpet. For nearly two weeks, we laughed and talked and once I even got to hug him. He talked […]
A Peace of Me
On an early December evening, my neighbor’s holiday lights sparkle while I sign Christmas cards with Peace glittered across the front. I’m in the spirit—until I start to add personal notes. My chest tightens, my fingers grip the pen. What can I say that isn’t a big fat lie? My inner voice is cruel: Hi […]
Blows to the Head
On Monday night, the bedside digital clock reads eleven-thirty-nine PM. My thirty-eight-year-old middle son flings open the door and crashes into our bedroom. Not that I’m asleep or anything—I’ve already awoken to suspicious thumps coming from the kitchen. My stomach clenches, my insides twist themselves into an infinity knot. And I start thinking about love. […]
Gray Areas
I’m told that in twelve-step-style recovery meetings, they discourage sharing “war stories,” or telling about specific incidents of being under the influence. By not talking about using, or the surrounding drama, various triggers are avoided, the group can better focus on recovery—and hang onto those 30-day chips. The No War Stories rule also gently helps […]
Strong Shoulders
That night, my son’s text arrived long after I was asleep, so I didn’t hear the chime. The next morning, I read his profanity-laced description of the work party he’d attended. Worst work party ever, it read. f*** (the restaurant). The needle on my guilt-o-meter shot up so fast it could have reached escape velocity. […]
Waiting for Morning
The original title of the book I wanted to write about my journey with three grown sons who are addicted to drugs and/or alcohol was IF MORNING EVER COMES. That if is important. If reflects my decades of praying, hoping, enabling, toughing, failing and flailing, all while desperately trying to keep hope alive. I’ve been […]
