Return of the Prodigal

October, 2015

(Note: Once I get all these posts transferred, updated, and linked, readers can read a rough copy of my next book. Follow along. I’d love your input.)

Continued from Roamin’ Roma

Roma settled back in Maryland in mid August to live only forty minutes from home. He let us know when he was safely moved in, but didn’t suggest we visit, so I didn’t either. He said when he could get a ride out, he would pick up the rest of his things. He verified that we did not know the person he was living with, just some guy he knew in high school. He didn’t even want to tell me the name or address. His secret was safe with me–I wasn’t going to come hunt him down!

“Putting himself out there,” an area in which Roma excelled, meant he was bold enough to ask for favors, from close friends to complete strangers, and anyone in between. I could imagine Roma asking everyone he had ever known, even in the remotest sense, if he could come live with them until he could get on his feet again, find a job, and help with rent.

No, Roma wasn’t shy about asking. And he wasn’t offended or discouraged if they said no. His list of possible prospects was endless. Who knows how far he had gone down his check list before getting a nibble from the winner of the opportunity to be Roma’s new roommate/caretaker. And he was sincere about his offers of one day being a contributing member of a household.

He did not want to live with Bruce and me. He was 21 and, in his never humble opinion, he was an adult. We had rules, even for adult children living at home.  And our not-so-distant memory of Roma residing with us had been a strain on everyone’s relationship. Most of his friends were away at college, and living independently from their parents, and he wanted to be independent too.

I was surprised to learn that Roma’s new roommate was living with his mother. I was comforted to learn this little detail. If Roma didn’t think he needed his own mother, perhaps he would continue to get a bit of mothering elsewhere.  It has always been evident that Roma could never have too many mother figures.

Roma reached out to us often while living away, yet so close. I would get a surprising text saying, “Mom, look at the sunset this evening, it’s beautiful.” I thought this odd and amusing because I was always saying that to him, often dragging him from the TV to come out on the deck to see God’s artistry. Or when we were driving home, over the last hill, the landscape would open up and was mostly painted sky.  Sometimes I would stop the car at the top of that hill so we could marvel at the beauty.

“Maaahm,” he would scold me in his boredom, “It’s just a sunset, oh my gosh, they happen every night.”

I wondered if Roma’s new recognition of the familiar splendor of the sunset made him a little nostalgic, tugging his heart toward home. And God!  Once there was a serious car accident a quarter mile from our house, and Roma, after hearing of it, called to make sure we were all safe and not involved. He did love us. No one could deny Roma’s huge, sweet heart.

He asked if he could go with us to our lake house in neighboring West Virginia the next time we went. We agreed, cautiously optimistic, and agreed on Labor Day weekend.  

Once at the lake, our extreme extrovert headed to the lodge earlier than we could, to see what was happening. He rode a bike the mile and a half to the lodge to start assembling new friends for the evening. When we arrived, Roma came over to introduce himself to our friends, always the gentleman. By 11 pm, we were heading home, telling him to head on his bike soon. I texted him and he texted  back, “I’m just hanging home.”

I read it as “I’m just heading home,” an auto-correct issue, I assumed. I texted him at midnight, asking if he was okay, since we hadn’t heard from him, and he was riding a bicycle without street lights.

His last text before his phone battery died read was, “I’m fine.” When he finally came home, an hour later, 1 am, he defended himself by telling me he had told me that he was just “hanging here” for a while, since his new friends were still available. Roma didn’t want to miss anything. It was a golfing weekend, and many people were there for the holiday weekend. Roma, never one to miss any activity, assumed we knew he was okay, because he had told us. And he had grown unaccustomed to checking in with us. 

Those kind of misunderstandings were common with our communications with Roma. He couldn’t understand why we would worry. I couldn’t help myself, when he was in our company. After our weekend together, the first in four months, we dropped him off near his new home at a convenience store. He said we couldn’t drive beyond a gate. I suspect he didn’t want us to know exactly where he was living. I was glad to allow him this freedom.

Later in the week, via a Faceboook group from our lake house, I learned that Roma had made some nice friends at the lodge that night. He had left a favorable impression on adults in our lake community who he had talked to at length that night. It pleased me. I had worried he was up to irresponsible behavior. Silly me for assuming he might make poor choices, like so many in recent history. 

By mid October he was talking about coming home to live with us again. I was reluctant to have him come home because it had been difficult to share a home with Roma in the recent past. Although he had always been easy to love, he was not easy to raise.

For the past ten months, I had maintained a long distance relationship with his birth family through translating website, making excuses why he was not in communication with them. “He is still emotional, but he will come around,” I assured them. His first family was now on Facebook, and “friends” with him, so I could see their constant comments and emojis on all of Roma’s posts, always trying to connect with him. I never was quite honest about his struggles. I knew they would love this charming guy, when they met him, and I tried to assure them it would happen as soon as he was ready.

Two weeks later, Roma began to really talk like a homesick boy. I was not eager to start the cycle again. Hadn’t God nudged me to withdraw the safety net? Was it time welcome the prodigal son home?

In mid October, Roma was pleading to come home. A sense of dread struck me, as my memory was still fresh from when he was home four months earlier,  and of every episode of his home stays before that. Had he worn out his welcome with his new living situation? I feared that was the case. And he needed a home. Ours.

Still, something made us know that if Roma was going to try to live at home again, we had to let him, while maintaining our high expectations of improved behavior. He told me that he needed his family.  We knew what Roma needed most, after God, was us, but it had to be Roma’s idea. And he had to be willing to change.

So on Monday, October 19, Roma decided it would be a good idea to come home. He also decided that he would follow the house rules. He reminded me it was his idea, and I didn’t need to remind him all the time.

Someone drove Roma the forty minutes to meet Bruce at Monday night volleyball, which had been Bruce and Roma’s tradition since Roma was old enough to join the men’s league.

When he arrived home, he gave me a big Roma-hug. Seeing his pitiful little ragged bag of earthy possessions almost broke me. He looked like an orphan, and he was NOT! The prodigal son had returned. He was almost contrite. And almost contrite for Roma was a shocking and welcome improvement. He set down with us at the kitchen table, as if we were about to sign a contract. He said he was not ready to live on his own, he needed his family, he loved his family. He loved us all so much, he wanted us to go on a family vacation, like we used to do. Like a little boy, he told us he wanted to rent a big house at Holden Beach in North Carolina, like before, and the whole family go, his sisters and brother, and all the nieces and nephews and brothers-in-law. Maybe he could invite a friend. It was going to work this time. I promised we would start making plans for the summer of 2016.

The prodigal son was home. Again. We were eagerly trying to be optimistic this time, and offer Roma grace.

Next, A Grace refined.