April, 2015
From Loved with a Passion
In January, 2015, after his abrupt return from Atlanta, Roma tried to settle into family life at home, once again. He hadn’t been home, except for school breaks and short visits since he left for Fork Union Military Academy in August of 2011. He struggled to embrace the prospect of being at home indefinitely.
He looked for a job and researched education opportunities. He found a local school that offered Emergency Medical Training. He was impatient to get started, as though he might lose interest is he didn’t begin immediately. Roma is impulsive. When a new idea comes to him, he wants to run with it. We wanted him to stop dashing into situations and instead slow down and consider all the possibilities.
“Mom, I don’t want to finish college when I’m 25.” I didn’t want to warn him it might be longer than that, or never. Not everyone belongs in college.
“Roma, what’s your hurry? Yes, I know you’re smart, but if you aren’t ready to work hard yet, if you don’t know what you want to do, you’ll be wasting your time and money. You need to slow down and think.” I was torn because I wanted him to be busy and fulfilled. I almost wanted him to begin college or training right away, with us paying for everything, in order to prevent him from becoming bored. A bored Roma was a danger to all of us. But we had also learned that Roma didn’t value things or opportunities that came too easily or without effort and sacrifice on his part. Isn’t that true of all of us?
Once again, we offered Roma the chance to prove he was serious about EMT training by getting a job and saving money before he began any classes. If he could do that, if he could prove to us, and to himself, that he was ready to dedicate his time and energy to something, and stick to it for a whole year, and make good grades, we would be eager to help after that.
All our “conditions” made Roma’s eyes glaze over. Roma wanted “easy.” And “now.” But we knew an easy or quick fix wouldn’t be a lasting solution for Roma in his journey to becoming an adult. And sweet Roma was far from an adulthood at twenty.
Our offers bored him. He didn’t have time to jump through all our hoops. So he contacted a Army recruiter. He had a friend in the Army–maybe that would work for him. But then, he also had a friend in the Marines. And the Navy. He checked them all out.
I worried about Roma in the military. I knew the military was a great choice for many young people who were in the process of maturing. But I had a friend whose son attended college in the ROTC program, enlisting as an officer upon graduation. She said his biggest challenge was dealing with immature enlistees whose mothers thought the military would straighten out their immature sons. I didn’t want to burden young officers with the added responsibility of babysitting my baby.
Roma was twenty and a half years old. He had to decide for himself. He didn’t ask my advice, and I didn’t offer it. Roma wouldn’t listen anyway. If it wasn’t Roma’s idea, he would dismiss a great idea, until he could turn it around and think it was his idea. I prayed God would would inspire him with some divine ideas, and protect him from more impulsive decisions that could have long term consequences.
He found a job in a local grocery store, stocking shelves overnight, 11 pm to 7am. He slept all morning and afternoon three or four days a week, got up in time to spend time with friends, then back to work. It was a confusing and exhausting schedule to me, but Roma independently managed his schedule without my nagging.
By April, he didn’t always come home, and when he did, he was often impaired by alcohol, but most often, pot. He didn’t think we could smell either, especially when he was suddenly in the habit of dousing himself with Axe cologne. But looking at his sparkly green eyes that were all but obliterated by his dilated pupils, even I could tell.
“Mom, chill out, it’s not like I’m doing hard drugs. Pot will be legal soon.”
As a person who has never experienced any curiosity about drugs, I had a difficult time chilling out. Most of the time, I could calmly reinforce our rule about no alcohol to children under the age of 21 or illegal drugs of any kind in our home. Sometimes I was not so calm. So Roma stopped coming home at curfew, then he would come home the next day acting like everything was fine.
“Maaaahhhhm,” he would say, loudly dragging out that one syllable word for a few, exasperated seconds, “I’m almost 21 years old, and I just want to have fun. It’s what kids do.”
A familiar dread hit me. But, as usual I didn’t have any power to change any of Roma’s behavior. The only control I had was how I would respond.
Roma and his friend Lee had a nickname for me when they were little, “Deb-a-saurus.” They couldn’t imagine that I was a kid once, too. When I was Roma’s age, did I have my feet planted firmly on the straight and narrow path leading to Heaven? Hardly. I had my feet planted in the garden of Self. My Self. I tended and cultivated my Comfort with such intense self-absorption that I could hardly think of anyone but myself. I did that way past the age of twenty–I do it still. I was not so different from fun-loving Roma. But as an introvert, I have always been averse to risky behavior. As an extreme extrovert, Roma wants to leave no experience untried.
I didn’t have the energy to write about him when it was evident the Prodigal Son was preparing to set sail again. We would let him go. We would watch for more God Stories in his considerable wake. We would watch for signs of his return when he hit another “bottom.”
I told Roma he needed to start looking for an alternate living arrangement, if he was insistent on living outside our rules.
The next day Roma called to tell me his evolving plan. He was moving back to Atlanta. Beyond that, he had nothing. In spite of the incompleteness of his idea, I was pleased. I hoped he was returning to be a part of Passion City, the church he had attended while in Atlanta the summer before and immersed himself in the Passion community. He had so recently been invigorated by Passion 2015, just three months earlier. I hoped that he knew that boredom might cause him to fall into destructive habits. He didn’t even ask to take the car we had for his use, or money. All he requested was that I drive him to the metro station, forty minutes away to catch an overnight bus to Atlanta.
I agreed. We talked the entire trip. Roma and I have never be at a loss for conversation. When we arrived at the metro station, Roma asked me to pray for him. I prayed and then he prayed. Then we hugged, and off he went on another careless escapade.
Yet, a load of responsibility lifted as I watched him disappear into the tunnel, his well-traveled duffle bag under his arm. Roma feared nothing. I was proud of his assertiveness. And Roma and I had both witnessed God’s protection in the past. It would be a sin to worry about him. God met him around every corner in the past. I had to trust God would go after him this time.
Once again, I had to let Roma go.
Continue with Roma’s lonely journey
Consider it all JOY 