This time it wasn’t me running. I could now see wanting to run from a new perspective.  It was my 11 year old son now.  This time, I could see the sadness that compelled him, instead of that sadness that compelled me. He decided he didn’t want to live with us anymore. 

Oh his heart, it must have been hurting so much.  I can say that now.  Now that I'm not at home not knowing where he is and looking for him, worried.  Now that the police aren’t out looking for him. Now that it’s not dark outside but a bright Sunday afternoon.

Now I’m feeling at peace, even remembering that night.  Remembering how this peace was so far out of my reach that night he was gone.  Angst, that’s what I remember from that night. The memory of a very similar feeling the night Grant left and didn’t come back.

Grant didn’t come back in what I now knew would be forever.  This time with my son missing, I didn’t know how long it would be, if ever.  But this time, I now had an understanding of the pain that comes when someone leaves you forever and that added to my angst that night.

Just before that night was turned upside down,  I was cozy in my bed.  Feeling so grateful to get to bed early.  I’d had 3 late nights and early mornings in a row and I was exhausted.  All I wanted to do was sleep.  My body yearned for rest so deeply that it was all I could do not to fall asleep as I waited to hear for my son to come home. 

He should be home already I thought.  I just wanted to hear the door open, close, and his steps pad down the stairs.  Then I would allow my body the next stage it was demanding of me. I continued to resist it while listening for those footsteps. 

I had a nagging feeling and I couldn’t shake it. I had done some intense intentional  parenting of my son earlier in the day. This conversation is the type that no one wins and the kind that makes you sad to do; especially without the support or backup of anyone in the moment who cares as much as me about my son. 

I’d been patient and invited him to learn, but he responded only with anger. I waited a long time to talk with him on this and it was time.  I would be irresponsible if I didn’t bring it up to teach him at this point. He continued his irresponsible angry behavior, but now directed it towards me. 

This moment I knew would be a catalyst for the punishment or the consequences long coming, but I couldn’t keep hiding from it.  I would hurt him with my blind eye. It would teach him that he’s not responsible for his behavior.  That would hurt both of us too much in the long run. 

In the short run though, it seemed as if there wasn’t anything we both could have done to avoid it. It would have been attractive to avoid it, compared to the pain we both felt.  That’s the thing about pain though, you don’t get to run away from it.  Ever. There is only delaying.  

So, that night lying in my bed…  I realized I hadn’t seen him in hours. He should have been home by now, so against every cell in my tired body, I willed myself up.  I put my feet on the floor, feeling like a thousand pounds was pushing me back down.

I stood up with all that on me, to do what it took to make sure my baby was safe, even when it hurt.  I went downstairs, I didn’t find him. He wasn't in his hiding spots either.  The other kids were all tucked in and asleep.  He was not.

I resisted this reality. I wanted to handle this without all this drama. I wanted to do it without asking for help again. I called the police, just like I did the night Grant died. I gave the report, just like I did the night Grant died.  They all came, just like they did the night Grant died. 

I was up most of the night, again, just like the night Grant couldn’t be found.  I remember praying that he’d come home alive and knew it wouldn’t be that simple, not with what he was doing.  Tonight, with Rhys, I did know that my son was alive and what a relief that was to know at least. 

The pain of waiting, finding, not knowing, feeling helpless and trying to find a way to cope; it all came back.  It was the night Grant was lost, happening again, through his son. I was sorely hurting now because the night Grant never came back was brought back to my present painfully.

The first hour went by.  The next hour went by. I waited.  This is so hard.  Why me??? Can I please get a break?  He went away, just like Grant did.  This is a moment of life that feels so difficult, just like all the difficulties Grant brought and left me with.  I am so tired.

I want to rest and go to bed, just like the night Grant left. Tonight as one of many more since that life changing night, I can’t do that.  I can’t just go to bed, because I’m choosing to stay.  I’m choosing to be here and take on the responsibility they now both have left me.   

I felt drained.  I knew my son would come home, unlike his dad, but when? And how?  I didn’t know.  How could his dad leave him?  How could his dad leave me to do this on my own?  He had.  What am I going to do?  How do I do this?  Why is this so challenging?

I feel I’m not capable of handling all this challenge. Parenting is both unmeasurably hard and immeasurably full of joy. This parenting gig, as a single parent... A task that feels insurmountable more times than not for two, with one, well, there are not words to describe it.

Yet, I am doing it, cause if I didn’t who would? As I engage in the impossible, I grow and do the impossible. I learned something over these last two years as a young widow and single parent of 4 young children, it’s that faith that makes the impossible possible.

That’s a truth I couldn’t have comprehended till I’ve been asked to do and have done impossible things. So I hung that up this saying near my toilet, cause as often as I use it… I want to remember the miracles of faith are just as frequent, if not more so.