I’d get to be a mom, after years of infertility treatment did not work.

I never thought I would see anything more beautiful than the face of my newborn son.

I never thought I’d be so blessed to have the opportunity to stay home with him, and watch him develop and grow. God gave him a sweet heart, a voracious need to learn, a love of adventure and a mischievous smile.

I never thought his dad would not be a good father…that he would always literally be dying for his father’s love in any form.

I never thought I would hear him plead over and over for his father not to beat him, or to not be ugly to his mother.

I never thought I would be glad to walk into an emergency room, seeing him handcuffed to a bed rail, because it meant he lived though a car accident from being under the influence of prescription drugs.

I never thought I would sit in a courtroom with my child, and rejoice with him when he completed community service as a juvenile.

I never thought I’d be awakened by law enforcement officers inquiring the whereabouts of my son, serving him warrants, searching his room, and being consoled by the same officers in my living room.

I never thought I would know as much as I do now, about drug paraphernalia.

I never thought I would witness horrible seizures brought on by head trauma, beatings, and made worse by illegally-gotten Xanax. He would be surrounded by large cushions in the hospital as I awaited diagnostic scans of all kinds.

I never thought I’d lay prostrate on the floor of my son’s empty room, praying and pleading, reciting scriptures and weeping for the Lord to spare my son’s life and rescue him.

I never thought I would hold a 20 year old man in my arms, while he was weeping, jaggedly crying out, “Why can’t Dad love me?”

I never thought I’d be awakened repeatedly from 1-3 AM by calls laced with fear, sometimes through slurred words.

I never thought my son would be homeless.

I never thought I’d be praying for the Lord to comfort my son in a jail cell.

I never thought I would see self-tatted, crude jail tattoos on my precious son’s skin. The skin I caressed when he was a tiny one, slathering on sunscreen to protect him.

I never thought I’d console my son by reading the Psalms out loud. This happened over the phone in jail, counting every minute to pay for his bits of peace.

I never thought it would be so apparent that parts of the system are so broken in regard to finding help: insurance, mental health professionals, drug counseling.

I never thought I would watch my only son, struggle with sobriety, and constantly wrestle with his inner critic, driven by a harsh voice reminiscent of his father’s.

I never thought I could pray so hard, and love so much.

~~h

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