Chapter Four

Out of difficulties grow miracles. —1 Peter 5:10

By February 2014, Roma wasn’t coming home by his curfew, or answering his phone when we made attempts to track him down. At first, we would be up most of the night, wondering if he was alive or dead. Then we understood that he was just being defiant. He usually arrived home intoxicated. We took away the old 2000 Chevy Impala we allowed him to drive. When it became obvious that he was also smoking pot, I was beside myself with worry. He lied so easily, looking us straight in the eye, and expecting us to believe ludicrous stories. If his lips were moving, he was usually lying. Money disappeared from my purse. The sudden darkness of my delightful Roma drained me of all helpful ideas. But every time despair threatened my peace, I would remember that if God called me to be this child’s mother, and had even vividly warned me of coming trials, He would lead us. We would have to trust God completely. Worry would indicate I believed that this was too big a hurdle for even God, that He could not be trusted.

Do not fear, do not fear, do not fear, I would instruct my spirit that was often bent toward panic. Jesus had said to a man who was also having trouble with his son in Mark, chapter 9, “If you can believe, all things are possible.” The eager-to-believe father pled with Jesus as I did, “Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.”

Oh, how I did not want to parent a rebellious child. I was anxious and scared that it was going to be necessary. I had never been a defiant child. I had always tried to make my mother proud and spare her from worry. I loved harmony at all costs. But my mother did not plan on it either, and yet she faced the unwanted job of raising a prodigal son. I remembered vividly a conversation I had with her decades earlier when I was still in high school. My brother, two years younger, was going off the rails and my mother, a single parent who had no help from my father, was alone to discipline him. I tried to persuade her to allow him to suffer natural consequences for some minor bad choices he was making. But she feared that if she didn’t continually rescue him, he would ruin his future. My mother was a wonderful parent, and we rarely had a difference of opinion, but on this topic, we were at odds. My frustrated and fearful mother got angry at me for giving her parenting advice, eight years before I became a parent. She reminded me I had never been a parent, and couldn’t understand. I promised myself then and there I would never enable a child to escape natural consequences if a valuable lesson had to be learned.  I watched my brother become dependent on others to take care of him. Even in his fifties, he still depended on someone to rescue him. My mother, my aunt, my sister. His life was marked by addictions and failures. He never got his act together, with two failed marriages and estrangement from his children. He was living in my mother’s home when she died, and he died, penniless, in a decrepit boarding house, seven years to the day that she passed.  

I knew in my heart that “tough love” was the only method that would work with stubborn Roma.  We could not save him from himself, no matter how much I dreaded seeing him fail. Roma was smart; he would learn, even if he chose the hard way. It was evident that there would be a “rock bottom,” a “prodigal son” experience in his future unless he had a drastic change, and soon.  I prayed it would not be so serious as to ruin his future. And if it appeared to be that serious, I had to remember that God would never be done with Roma. And Bruce and I would not either.

Thankfully, Bruce and I were in agreement about our path forward in discipline. We told Roma that if he wasn’t going to follow our rules, he could not live in our home. Privately, we knew we could not kick him out. Living on the streets for the second time in his 19 years, would not foster growth for this young man who was removed from his Russian family at age five after repeated reports to the authorities that the small child was begging on the streets for food. We offered an alternative after much prayer, research, and reaching out to anyone who had experience with addictions. A plan emerged for a 30-day drug rehab followed by possible four to six months in a halfway house with intensive therapy. The intensive therapy was key—early trauma in the lives of adopted children often negatively impact their lives forever.

We were not sure if Roma had a real addiction issue at that time, but for us to have any peace, we needed for him to be in the constant care of professionals. When he started going off the tracks, we felt we had to act quickly to give him strategies to deal with what might be an inherited trait. We knew there was an alcohol dependency on his mother’s side which resulted in the removal of her children, and eventually the adoption of Roma and a baby brother whose paper trail was lost before we were connected to Roma. We couldn’t be Roma’s safety net. He would have to hit a bottom to stop the free fall.

To locate a reputable treatment center, I prayed and searched for “Celebrate Recovery,” (CR) a Christ-centered recovery program in the Delray Beach area. Many churches offer CR in Delray Beach, Florida, the rehab capital of the country, apparently. One sponsoring church also had listed on their website “Adopted Orphan Care.” Those words jumped out at me.  I reasoned that this church might understand square-peg Roma.  I emailed the contact’s name for rehab facility recommendations.  A woman emailed back and recommended a facility her own son had attended with success. My “thank you” reply included a request for prayers for Roma with a link to my book, explaining that God had merged my life with Roma’s in a “God story.”

Roma was initially eager to head to sunny Florida in March, instead of choosing homelessness in Maryland. Living close to the beach after a long, cold winter in Maryland appealed to him. To have him in the safe, constant care of professionals, and anyone else but us, appealed to me.

He breezed through the 30 days of intensive residential rehab, endearing himself to all his counselors. I received many updates on his progress, glowing reports of the professionals’ opinion that he had an excellent chance of recovery, and oh, what a great kid he was. He moved into his halfway house, got a job, a bike, and it appeared we might have dodged catastrophe. He might be finally finding his way. We prepared to drive to Delray Beach for Family Weekend the end of May. I felt he was preparing us for the idea that he might not leave Florida but stay after the half-way house residency of four to six months.

Then the rumblings of discontentment and denial began. “I want to come home. I hate it here. You guys made me come. I wasn’t doing hard drugs like everyone else here. Just alcohol and pot. I don’t belong here.” Roma had conveniently forgotten the trouble he had given us six weeks prior. We offered encouragement to stay with the plan. We offered no false hope that he could come home. We asked that he stick to it and trust his team of counselors.

Five weeks into the suggested six months in the halfway house program, we were devastated to learn from one of his counselors that he had left the halfway house and quit his job.

As the revelation of his leaving the safety of the halfway house was jarring me, I would also learn the impetuous, fashionable boy had spent his last paycheck on a tattoo. He was oblivious, as my phone dinged with a text from him, that I had just learned at that very moment that he had left the halfway hour. I was mistaken to hope he was texting to confess what I was just learning. “Mom, can you help me out with groceries, just this one time. $40 would be a big help.”

“Nope,” was my immediate return text. I suspect my curt reply warned him that those eyes in the back of my head had caught him again. We were not willing to offer financial help to our darling boy, sporting a new tattoo, who slept in a car the night before. His impulsive plan was to go to Georgia, move in with a friend from his days at Fork Union Military Academy, whose name was completely unfamiliar to me, get a job, go to college, figure it out, and make something of his life. He made it sound so reasonable and simple.

I texted him periodically through the day, suggesting he return to his group home, and just to remind him that I loved him.  He texted back more than usual, sizing up the potential to manipulate, sensing my sensitive mother’s heart, explaining how his plan would work. He asked again if I could just help him out with $25, at least, to check his bag on his flight to Atlanta. I would later learn his mystery friend’s mother paid for his plane fare, I’m sure with promises of repayment, once Roma’s plan was successful. I was as stubborn as he and refused to help a guy out. The texting stopped.

That evening, May 6, 2014, about 7:45, a man called who introduced himself as Fred, someone who runs a Celebrate Recovery center in Delray Beach. I immediately thought Roma had shown up at a CR meeting. But the truth was even better.

After asking if I was Roma’s mom, the stranger began, “This is a God story.” As chill bumps stung my arms, I lowered myself into a nearby chair to listen. Fred reminded me of the email I had written weeks earlier, and long-since forgotten, to the woman at the church who gave me a recommendation for treatment centers. He said the woman who received my email came across it just a few days earlier and forwarded it to him in case Roma ever showed up at CR. 

Fred had stopped at a doughnut shop. After exiting his car, a young man approached him on the sidewalk, asking if he could spare some money. 

Fred told the young man that he didn’t give money to people he met on the street. But he added, “What’s your name?” (Who asks strangers begging on the streets their names?)

“Roma,” the young man answered. Suddenly Fred remembered the recently forwarded email and became alert, and incredulous.

“I know you! You were adopted from Russia!” At this point Roma was dumbfounded and visibly shaken. They chatted a while, as vulnerable Roma told Fred his abridged history. Fred, 39, equally stunned, had himself been in successful recovery for many years. And Fred was a Christian. He was blown away by this cosmic experience. He had called to tell us of this serendipitous meeting and to say that Roma was still standing there with him, and did we want him to give Roma that *%#*&* $25 to check his luggage to fly to Atlanta. I dug in my heels and stood by my “no.” He agreed that no was probably the right answer. He offered what seemed like an inspired plan—he would mail Roma’s luggage to him when he got to Georgia, where he was still determined to go. We could not stop him from leaving Florida. Fred shared his thought that the halfway house might not be the best place for young Roma at this time. There were often hardened drug addicts who relapsed in those facilities, and Roma had, for at least the past 12 years, lived a sheltered life in our family.

Once off the phone, I sat trying to process the call. Over 60,000 people live in Delray Beach. What are the chances that a man reading about an adopted Russian boy named Roma would be approached by the same boy on a sidewalk a short time later? And what made Fred ask Roma’s name? And thank God that Fred knew things about the halfway houses that we didn’t, that he could confirm that maybe Roma was making the right decision to leave.

As I sat reeling from this divine appointment, my phone dinged with a new text, interrupting my state of utter awe. My humbled boy texted his chill-bump-covered mom. He wrote, “Only by the grace of God could that have just happened! I couldn’t thank y’all enough for everything y’all have done for me. I will not let you down anymore.”

Fred called again later. Not wanting Roma to spend another night in a car, he took him to a Christian halfway house run by a friend, where he could sleep on the couch and be fed. That night Roma was in the company of seven devoted Christian men. And God!

The next morning, I received another message from Fred, who was apparently still marveling about the experience, too. He wrote, “God has tremendous plans for Roma!” I was beginning to believe that too.

The night before, I had been in tears about the path my son was choosing. But in the middle of my fitful sleep, I was comforted by a dream: I was wandering in an unfamiliar neighborhood, lost in the twilight, when I came upon a park. I stopped at the entrance, an ancient arch of crumbling stucco. I stood transfixed, watching a scene from Roma’s early life, like a movie. I was standing on the right-hand side of the doorway when I sensed someone approach me from the rear and stand very close to me. I turned and it was Jesus.

Our challenges with Roma were not over, but I was suddenly keenly aware and comforted that Roma was being pursued by God, that his life was somehow not his own. God had proven He was worthy of my complete surrender and trust. He had warned me that trails were in the future, but I would not have to face them without a powerful Father who loved Roma and me more than I could fathom. God was making Himself visible to me, and to Roma. God had first made me aware of His activity in our lives in 2000, when He called me to adopt this precious child. I would continue to fight for Roma, confident that He who began that good work would see it through to perfect completion.

Continue with Chapter Five