Chapter Six

If your eyes are opened, you will see the things worth seeing. —Rumi

When God brought Nancy into our drama, my hopes soared. But my almost daily communications with Roma frustrated me. Why couldn’t he recognize that he was wandering in darkness? The week after his visit with his new Atlanta family, he still had no job and was making no efforts securing one, even though he assured me he would. He seemed to be satisfied just coasting along. Pot and alcohol were regular pastimes. I knew because I asked him. “Mom, this is what kids do,” he would defend his actions shamelessly. I worked at a high school, and I understood that these are not unusual activities, but never are they acceptable. Besides being illegal and harmful, what a waste of time, energy and brain cells. Never would I accept these behaviors as normal just because he self-identified as an immature “kid.”

Nancy’s and my desperate prayers started to include that Roma and his roommate would part ways. We both got dark vibes about his living situation.  She had even graciously offered to give him a room at her house, but my memory of living with this lovable, but volatile young man was too fresh. I would not impose the responsibility on anyone else, especially people I was just beginning to love. And Nancy had a beautiful young daughter, and Roma was a hopeless romantic. It was a recipe for disaster.

I humbly asked Nancy if she could inquire in her sphere of influence if there might be a family man who had a Christian passion for boys like Roma. Surely there were lots of people just waiting to mentor lazy, pot smoking charmers like my exasperating Roma. Maybe there was a group home, or a local job corps, or some facility that might be a solution. We continued to pray for a change in Roma’s living arrangements. It did not seem to be a good match for either boy. Along with my daily nagging about getting a job, I added that a new roommate would be in his favor; maybe he could make some good friends at the new church he had been attending. That suggestion angered Roma into defending his roommate as a good friend with whom he had endured a lot.

Six weeks after moving in with his roommate in Atlanta, on Friday morning, June 20, I got a call from Roma. “Mom . . . okay . . .,” he began slowly, which gave me too much time to fear his next words. “I have to tell you something. But it isn’t my fault.” 

I held my breath. He’s in jail? I jumped to a conclusion. When had arrest become an immediate and reasonable deduction about my precious Roma? But no, he was not in jail. He and his roommate had had a fight, and since it was his friend’s apartment first, Roma was out on the street. I almost laughed at our blessing of having a homeless son, safe from a perceived bad situation. He was with Nancy, always the angel, who he called first, and she insisted he call me. She picked him up at another friend’s house where he went after the fist fight. Roma was many things, but never violent. Never a fighter! He was 5’10”, 150 pounds, in platform sneakers with rocks in his pockets. His friend, a former football teammate, was, according to Roma, 6’5” with muscles to match his frame. Roma assured me he was not hurt but added that his ex-roommate could seriously use a detox program. Interesting that he assumed it would work for someone else. Nancy and I had been correct in summing up the circumstances.

Nancy offered to let him stay at her home, but I feared Roma would take advantage of her hospitality. He wanted a safety net, especially one not provided by Bruce and me. I asked her to take him to a hotel near her home. We paid for two nights, but he could not live there indefinitely. We prayed that God would intervene by Sunday, when Roma would be checking out, and guide our next steps. Later when we spoke, Nancy mentioned that a friend contacted her about a man of my dreams who did have a calling to work with young men in addiction. She would find out more. My hopes soared once more.

Nancy and I frantically messaged, trying to decide what to do next when Roma would be checking out of his hotel room after his two-day stay. I investigated homeless shelters, Job Corps, anything. I checked into flights for Bruce or me to go down, and other flights for him to come home. I felt strongly it was not time for him to come home. Was that selfishness on my part? Maybe. As much as I loved Roma, was I ready to return to where we were when this journey had begun in March? I absolutely was not. Nothing had been resolved.

At 3:30 that Friday afternoon, Nancy messaged me that her husband had talked with the man her friend told her about, who had a heart for young men struggling with addiction. Mark had agreed to meet with them the next day. Roma agreed to go with them. What choice did he have? He was up against a Sunday deadline with no alternative other than homelessness. I was grateful and humbled that Nancy and her husband were willing to spend their Saturday afternoon with my wayward son. But Nancy was also blessed in seeing God at work. She wrote, “And wait till you hear this—God is in this BIG time. Not only does he have a heart for teen/young addicts—he particularly has a deep passion for helping boys from RUSSIA!!!”

My tears of awe came immediately. Yes, God was in this, BIG time. Only God’s truth was better than any fiction I could have written.

Saturday, June 21, I prayed that Roma would be interested in what the man had to say, and thanked God over and over for sending Roma straight into Nancy’s heart! What are the chances that I would ask for prayers in a private Facebook adoption group and a woman I had never met would respond and then develop such a fondness for my boy? And a woman who would have the time and resources to devote to his various and extensive needs. Bruce and I had done everything we could to help him understand our logic of working hard and being successful, avoiding bad outcomes from poor decisions. But, oh my, he was a stubborn boy. “Just make him come home,” a friend said. Oh how I wish it would be that simple. But then what? We would have continued the same scenario of Roma’s rebellion. As much as we would have liked to have saved him from his bad choices, he was determined to live his life by his rules. He insisted he was an adult. We knew a rock bottom was in his future, but we were powerless to save him from it. Roma was an extravagant gift from God, and we loved him more than life itself. We would have to surrender his care to God.

Nancy reported later that Roma had been very interested to learn that Mark took young men on retreats to his family ranch in Idaho for a week, if he felt God led them to him. Mark said that God had clearly confirmed that Roma was to be one of those young men when he met him. They had an immediate bond. Roma was all in for another grand adventure, until Mark started talking about addiction and recovery. I can imagine Roma writhing with his demons over such talk. Roma texted me that he was irritated that everyone was trying to manipulate him. He made it clear he was not going.

Nancy messaged me later to say how impressed she was with Mark after she had done more research. He was a scientist and lawyer by education, a lawyer by profession. Her contacts knew him well and gave her peace that he was the real deal. We needed to persuade Roma to get on that plane next Saturday. How timely it had been for this to fall into place less than a week before Mark was flying out. Nancy was certain this was an opportunity that Roma could not miss. These trying days and weeks, I had fought my battles on my knees, pleading with God to intervene. And He had shown up in powerful ways and opened my eyes to see His presence. And Nancy had seen it, too.

The following morning, the phone woke us at 6 a.m. I handed our landline phone over the bed to Bruce, the strong one—I sensed bad news. His strong “hello” soon gave way to a quiet, shaky voice. 

The hospital? The morgue? I imagined. I soon ruled out the morgue with his comments. The hospital? My wild imagination filled in every question I had. I got up to look for insurance information. Surely, he was in the hospital. How bad was he hurt? Then I could hear a woman’s voice over the phone. A familiar woman’s voice. I recognized Nancy’s voice. Bruce was up, grabbing a paper and pen from his desk. “Dekalb County Jail,” he repeated back as he wrote the words.

“Thank you, Lord!” I said. I was grateful my son was in jail! It could be so much worse. When had I lowered the bar so low on my expectations that jail was the best of the possibilities? But he was not dead! He was very much alive, until I could get my hands on him!

Poor Nancy had to be the stand-in mom with our 19-year-old’s first arrest. The charge? Disorderly conduct. I spent five hours trying to get through to the jail by phone. Unsuccessfully. When I did finally reach a live voice, I tried to pay his bail with my credit card. No, the bail had to be paid in person and $350, exact cash. I explained to the disinterested and unsympathetic woman that I lived in Maryland, 13 hours away, and that I was more than willing to leave him in jail for the week, or longer. But Nancy assured me that jail in Decatur, Georgia, or any jail, I’m sure, could be an institution of higher learning for my young miscreant. We did not want any “connections” to be made while he was on the “inside.” The impetus for me springing him was to get him to Passion City Church with Nancy’s family for the 5 p.m. service. We worked all day trying to reach the right number that would unlock the door, literally. Nancy’s husband went to his ATM to get the $350 bail money to take to the arresting police department, then back to church, because this Sunday was a very busy Sunday, being Generosity Sunday. How appropriate for Nancy and her husband. The police station told him it could be up to five hours before they could release my son, who by that time might be a hardened criminal. So, he would miss church after all. They would pick him up afterwards.

Roma entered jail at 3 a.m. and was released 17 hours later at about 8 p.m. Nancy wrote that, if we didn’t mind, she and her husband would like to take Roma out for a bite to eat and have a long, honest talk with him.

Where do we find friends like this, except for God connecting us? I headed to my prayer closet to pray for what I hoped would be their meeting with a contrite, humble, sniveling mass of repentance. Nancy’s message later revealed my unrealistic optimism.  I called him. My young jailbird was cocky and totally unrepentant. “Mom, it was nothing; it probably won’t be on my record since I’ve never been arrested before.” He even laughed at my concern.

“Roma, being arrested is a big deal!” Our conversation went from that high point and plummeted to him dismissing us as parents and telling us to have a nice life! Then he hung up on me! I was enraged. In my frustration and anger, I suspended his phone service immediately. He continued to text saying, “You need to reconnect my phone. I have to be able to contact Markus.” But I was still responding in my anger, totally missing his text until a few more angry texts from me. Then the arrogant lad texted, “Stop texting me!” So, I did.

I was defeated. There was no hope in the foreseeable future. I could feel that dreaded despair tormenting my spirit. I believed all the terrifying lies the enemy told me. My last message to dear, dear Nancy that night was, “In the story of the Prodigal Son, the father does not go after the son. He lets him go.”

That might be necessary sometimes for earthly fathers and mothers. But not so for our most loving and merciful and powerful Heavenly Father! He goes after his wayward sons.

Continue with Chapter Seven