The Elephant in the Room

     I've mentioned before that my son, S and I had fallen out of touch for some time, and had reunited in July this year.  Truth is, we had lost touch during his rebellion and commission of God-knows how many or what variety of criminal acts, and his ensuing incarceration for at least one or more of said crimes.  When we saw one another in July I wished for the best, but was not very hopeful -- he had made no effort to contact any of us, had not gotten a job, and had been seen rolling about town with his "usual cronies" as my mother chauffeured.  Given appearances, a few things had changed, the majority had not.  My instincts were correct; from the time he first spoke to me on the phone (after someone had reached out to him) it was a litany of intentions and excuses, half-truths and embellishments typical of the S that was always "on the hook" for something or another.  I never thought less of him -- I know my son's potential -- but the disappointment I felt at his continued lack of character even after such a harsh dose of reality, was surpassed only by the fear that struck him standing in my kitchen that day.  Despite my joy at seeing him, despite my respectfulness and responsiveness as he made baseless claims or careless promises, he knew I had looked right through him, and he was not ready to be honest with himself, much less me.

     Fast forward four months -- my son is once again in jail.  This time, for crimes against the one person who, in the past two years or so, has impoverished herself that S might have.  Now, I think less of him.  Now I am disgusted by the sight of him.  That being said, he is my son however, and I want a joyful, incredibly positive outcome to this situation, but his behavior is vulgar and repulsive, and I can't bare to look at his face.  I want my son to sit in jail until his heart has turned.  I want my son to dwell day after day in the realization that his deeds were vile, and to glory in the Truth there is only one avenue out -- not money, not sex, not popularity, not all the ridiculous, minacious, pretentious tattoos he has plastered all over himself, but the Way he was taught from the time he was small.  I want him to realize what a sucker he has been -- not a baller, not a player, but a sucker -- to believe the lies of an angel fallen from God's Grace who wants nothing more than S's soul and the souls of each of us, condemned the same fiery, agonizing eternal destruction he will one day suffer (misery loves company, S).  I want him to know that those who have put him in jail want only for him to live up to the potential he was given by His Creator Who loves him so, Whom he has rejected.  I wany my son to fight for his destiny the way I know my son can fight.  I want my son to work for true success the way I know my son can work.  The path S chose is the punks' way, the way of the weak and cowardly, those who are unable or unwilling to walk heavily the challenging, sometimes punishing path of propriety.  I want him to know the fulfillment, the gratitude, the happiness that comes from growing up and walking with God, forging his destiny with God in the lead, marrying the one He has picked for him, working at the career He chose for him, experiencing the joy He has for him.  Any other choice leads to heartache and frustration, and I want him to know that.  It's not easy to do the right thing -- it hasn't been easy for those involved in this decision -- but S is no wimp.  Why he's chosen to be, is for him to answer; why he doesn't have to be, is Christ.