Foreboding

November 2015

Continue from Yielding to hope

About three weeks into Roma’s homecoming, a family friend asked how our family was dealing with Roma’s recent return. She had loved her future neighbor, Roma, since his first visit to American when we hosted him in late 2001 for five very long days. He sashayed into our weekly joint family pizza night, and boldly squeezed between two of the older kids on first introduction. She was intimately aware of all his challenges of the past few years. She knew I had some trepidation about his return, fearful the pattern of coming and going, of hope and disappointment would continue to repeat itself. I told her how his last six months away from the family had seemed to have finally matured him, that I was more hopeful this time. When I said he was working with a handyman, landscaping, cleaning gutters, repairing roofs, she grimaced. 

“You know that’s a very dangerous job.” She watched me closely to insure I was listening carefully to her warning.  “An astounding number of people die falling from ladders.”

Her husband is a builder, and she works in the business end of the construction industry, so she knows well the dangers of the trade. 

 I was stunned. I had never considered Roma’s life being at risk on the job. He had made plenty of bad choices on his free time, but I considered him safe, occupied and sheltered while at work. My shoulders slumped as I considered this new risk. My friend, who had watched strong-willed Roma grow up next door, and I both recognized I had no power to insist he change jobs. I had tried, for my own convenience. I did recognize that Roma’s honed people skills weren’t being fully utilized at this job, but it was a means to a need-of-money ends. It was temporary.  But suddenly  I was obsessed with his safety.

“Roma, you need to find another job,” I told him the next drive to work. “Working on roofs is a very dangerous job.”

“Mom, don’t be negative. I’m learning a  lot, and making money. My boss is going South for a few weeks in the winter, so I’ll probably have to get another job then. But I’m fine for now,” he tried to quell my fears. Maybe I was overreacting.  

 A few days later on our morning drive to work, Roma was tying his shoelaces on his boots when I heard a snap. 

“Roma!” I said, louder than I intended. “You can’t climb a ladder with broken shoelaces. You’ll trip.”

“Mom, chill,” Roma almost yelled back. “You’re scaring me! You know how superstitious I am. Now I probably will fall.”

“No, don’t say that.” I tried to calm us both. “Tie the ends together well, and tuck them into your boot. And be very careful! We’ll get new laces tonight.” 

I had to stop my negative thoughts. The past months, and even years,  I’d been able to hand Roma over to God for His protection. I was able to put aside worry. Now that he was home and seemed to be doing well, finally, why couldn’t I stop fretting about him. Did I truly believe what I claimed to believe about God’s providential Power? I wasn’t proving to be a very credible witness! I had to lay Roma down, and trust God, again.  

But the niggling worry didn’t subside. Stubborn Roma! I should have used the reverse psychology that so often worked on him by telling him I thought roofing was the perfect job for him, that I hoped he’d be doing it for the rest of his life. That would have raised his hackles, and he would have proven me wrong. Or I should have refused to drive him to meet his boss. Would he arrange another ride?

Strong-willed boy!  A year earlier, he had fought me for control over every aspect of his life. I had remained calm, remembering Roma has always been God’s boy and if I worried, it meant I didn’t trust God was in control. Like Abraham had laid down his cherished son Isaac as God had demanded, I had laid my cherished son Roma down before God, again, and again, realizing I have no power to make him do what I want, or to act in his best interest. A year earlier, I had finally told him what should have been a freeing relief for him. I said, “Roma, you can live your life your way. I give up. I will no longer have any expectations of you.”

He looked at me with obvious sadness and said, “Mom, that is mean.”

Roma wanted it both ways. I knew my feigned resignation would shock him. But now, suddenly, Roma was seeking our advice and approval. Our expectations of him were high, because he had so many gifts and talents.

One night Roma and I were talking about his stagnant car fund. He was borrowing back as much as he was contributing. We were sitting at the kitchen and I was giving him some solid financial advice.

“Mom,” (he always started his contemplative comments with “Mom,” maybe to get my attention.) “Why do I even need to learn to save money?” His remark set off alarms in my heart. Was he sliding back into irresponsible behavior? But it scared me beyond that possibility.

 I launched into explanations of the obvious, that everyone needs to get into a habit of not spending every single penny they make, and more, that we all need a reserve, in case of emergencies. Somehow his query made my heart ache. Roma, the innocent.  Would he ever get it? He just wanted to play ball and hang out with his friends. He didn’t even notice when someone didn’t like him or disrespected him.  Roma wasn’t capable of being offended. If he got angry with his family or with a friend, he reached out quickly to apologize and make peace again. 

The next day after delivering him to his destination, I was praying for him in my darken War Room, named so after seeing the first ads of the movie by the same name. I wanted him to save his money. I wanted him to consider going back to school. I wanted him to find a new job. I wanted him to be a functioning member of society.  I wanted him to use his considerable gifts. I wanted him to surrender his control to God. I wanted that for myself. I wanted him to have more discussions with his sister Liana, probably more for her broken heart as for his.

After the first conversation on the last days of 2014, Roma seemed satisfied to have discovered Liana was alive and happy, with two sons of her own. But she seemed so distant from his seven-year-old memory, as if he had swam to safety on one side of the divide, as she faded back into obscurity on the other side. He never expected to encounter her again, and he had to learn to live with that loss. Otherwise, he would be stuck, treading water in a vast emptiness. Currently, she might as well have been living on Mars, for the translating and awkwardness he felt was an insurmountable barrier. I pleaded with him, but he put me off every time I mentioned it. 

“Mom, I’m too emotional about it right now.” He knew that excuse would suffice. Of course he would be emotional. Roma added, “I’m glad she’s okay. I can’t think about it today. One day, I promise, we will go visit. One day.”

I could hardly force him, although my heart ached for sister Liana, and aunt Lia, and eager cousins who I had grown to love. I messaged them regularly, sending them updates, making excuses for his apparent indifference. For now, Roma was more than satisfied to just play football, or basketball, and hang out with friends, and work in yards and on roofs to fund those simple joys.

There in my War Room, failing to be still and knowing God is God, I fretted about God’s most surprising and cherished Gift to me–Roma. 

”What will become of Roma?” I asked God aloud in my dark prayer closet. Suddenly I had a startling thought. Almost a picture.  A quick movement. Was it a vision? Although I sat on an ottoman in complete darkness, I saw, or imagined Roma falling from a tall ladder. And he was gone. Dead.  The idea reduced me to sobs. “How could I ever live without dear Roma?” I asked the question that I could not voice to anyone.

I gathered my composure, got out of that closet, and immediately chided myself for my vivid imagination. That’s all it was, right? Lord, I prayed, please protect our boy, and don’t let me despair.

I had to stop worrying. 

Continue with Be Still, My Heart