Author: Winn Mete

In a Miracle

 

Christmas-2005

Dinnertime: Tonight’s menu is a large vodka and tonic in front of the TV. In happier times, my family would gather around the table for a full course meal. Now I was eating alone, the new norm since my older son was arrested three months ago and sent to the state’s juvenile detention center, 250 miles away. His younger brother preferred the company of his friends’ family to the self-pitying lush that I became since my husband of 20 years walked out.

“I don’t love you, anymore, Winn.” With one sentence, the lives of two young teenage boys and a middle-age homemaker were shattered as we watched Greg leave us to begin his new life with another woman.

Greg, Jr.’s downward spiral since his dad left came to a complete crash his junior year at Kodiak High School. Arriving at the Homecoming Dance quite drunk, he got in a fight, earning a three-day suspension. Trouble with any authority was Greg’s new norm, but when he broke suspension and went school to start another fight, he crossed the line. I arrived at the office in time to see a state trooper break out a set of handcuffs. His father sat silently staring a hole through the floor. There are no facilities in our small community to accommodate delinquent juveniles. That night my son boarded a flight to Anchorage where he would spend the next 11 months in detention and “treatment” for anger management.

During that time, I lost a succession of jobs to a losing battle with depression and a lack of employable skills. Twenty years as a stay-at-home mom and Coast Guard spouse doesn’t count for much on a resume. I drank heavily to blot out my situation: I was alone, unemployed; I had lost legal custody of one son and all respect of the other. The holiday season was approaching and everyday presented a losing struggle against fear and loneliness.

In contrast, Matthew seemed to thrive. I knew this was from his closeness with the Olsen family. Jeremiah’s family was more in tune with God than any family I had ever seen. He became Matt’s spiritual mentor.

As Christmas loomed closer, I drank more. I tried to sound sober when I placed my nightly call to Greg. I prepared dinner for Matthew every night, but he was seldom around to eat.

For much of my life I have struggled with this holiday. I was 16 when my mother was buried on Christmas Eve. It was at Christmastime when my husband left. Now, my precious son was locked away in juvenile detention, while his brother was virtually driven out of his own home, unable to cope with my dysfunctional behavior.

I sat at home alone with an empty rum bottle, crying so hard I nearly choked and for the first time since I was 16, I fell to my knees and cried out to God to somehow make things right. “Please God,” I prayed from the depths of my soul, “please let Greg somehow come home for Christmas.”

 

In the quiet morning of a new year, I listened to Matthew get up and prepare for Sunday morning service. He ran downstairs as the Olsen’s car pulled into our driveway. Unseen, I watched them greet him. He was genuinely happy—more a part of their family than his own. I ached for anything that would give me even a fraction of what he seemed to have found.

“Matt.” A talented guitarist, he barely glanced up as I tried to speak over the noise of the amp. “Could I go to church with you next week.”

“Sure.” He continued playing. “Service starts at 10:30. I go to Sunday school at 9:30.”

Matthew was so much a part of the church family, I felt like an intruder. But no one seemed surprised to see me there, and though I recognized few faces, most everyone seemed to know who I was. The following week as service concluded, Pastor Rex Leath asked who wanted to give their heart to God. Then he invited everyone who raised a hand to come forward. Matt and I were sitting near the back. “Would you go up there with me?” I asked, almost hoping for resistance.

He never hesitated and stood nearby the altar as Nancy Leath, the pastor’s wife told me how to invite Jesus into my heart.

Spring rolled around. Greg was now in a “treatment” center. I still called him daily but church and God filled our conversations. He knew I had joined Matthew at the church. Greg attended church because it was required. “Matt played bass with the choir today,” I told him one afternoon. I recounted the songs from that morning and was surprised that he knew them. They play those here,” he said, reciting a few lyrics.

The changes in Greg were subtle, a gentle softening in his attitude, but they screamed at me loudly and filled me with hope; even as his counselor reported his behavior was deteriorating. She recommended him for a 6-month step down program following his impending release. Greg’s father thought that was a great idea. I couldn’t imagine a worse fate for my son than six more months of state custody. That very evening, I went to the altar and prayed with other believers. “Please, Father, heal my son. Heal his heart and soul and send him home.” We prayed according to Matthew 18:19, “if two of you agree here on earth concerning anything, it will be done by my Father in heaven.”

Summer arrived and the state began arrangements to send Greg to Phase II of treatment. But Greg, fed up with life in treatment staged a minor rampage, breaking enough rules to send him back to detention. I should have been terrified but a strange calm washed over me. It was the peace of God, “he’s in my hands, he’ll be fine.”

A hearing was set to determine his placement. Nancy accompanied me and we prayed outside the courtroom just as my ex-husband arrived. The hearing progressed and recommendations were made. Greg’s attorney asked for conditional release, citing an extensive list of terms. His father requested continued incarceration. My chance to speak was coming, and I prayed for the words to bring my son home.

Matthew picked his brother up at the airport after his recent trip to Anchorage.

“So how’d it go,” I asked Greg as he walked in.

“Uh fine. They swore me in.”

My breath caught. “You’re enlisted already.”

Less than two weeks ago, Greg announced his intention to join the U.S. Marine Corps. I reeled with conflicting emotions. I tried to picture my son, with his mop of unruly curls, goatee and baggy Carhartt jeans sporting a high ‘n tight and dress blues.

Pride.

At the same time, he hadn’t even graduated high school. He’d barely been home six months. And that very morning, he had taken an oath that would separate him from me for good. I resented every lost moment with my son, even as I realized God had answered every prayer for him. Miracles can be painful. To bring him home and heal him also meant giving him the strength to take his place out in the world.

Greg’s challenges since arriving home went far beyond resuming his place at home and in school. Four months before his release from detention, his closest friend, a youth who lived only few houses away, walked along the banks of the Russian River in our neighborhood one evening. In a secluded thicket, he built a fire, spread out a tarp and shot himself to death.

Adding to that burden, another friend had recently been diagnosed with a rare, progressively fatal neurological disease. Sean and Greg went back to grade school. His gate staggered and speech slurred, Sean kept largely to himself these days.

Two days before Greg was due home from detention, Pastor Leath led the congregation in a special prayer. “A lot of people are looking for this young man to fail. God will not let him fail.”

Initially, Greg sat quietly in his seat during altar call. Now, he joins others at the altar, raising his hands in praise. Sometimes he stands in prayer for Sean; other times Sean is there in person. At Greg’s persuasion, he sometimes attends our church and youth group.

Sunday morning has developed its own routine. I get up early, awakened by two hungry dogs and a meowing cat. After feeding the critters, I wake up my sons and listen with joy as they argue over who gets first use of the bathroom. We pile into the car and as we sit together through service, I thank God that I am in the midst of a miracle.

 

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