As you go about your Easter Sunday festivities, spare a prayer and a thought for the women of Holy Saturday, those for whom the wait for a child to reappear is, or seems like it's in perpetuity. There are mothers who are waiting for word on their children, presumed to be held hostage in Gaza but not really knowing whether they are dead or alive. There are mothers who have been separated from their children and don't know if their bodies are lying undiscovered beneath the rubble of Israel's bombs or may have safely made it to another country. The mothers of Argentina still wait, decades later, for their children who seemingly vanished simply for having the courage to voice their opposition to a murderous regime.
There are other mothers who don't get much sympathy (nor do they ask) for their children whose whereabouts are unknown. I know, because I was once one of them and by God's love and mercy have I been spared what so many are still living. We are mothers of children in addiction, possessed by the demon known as heroin. There are no fundraisers for us, no glances of sympathy or casseroles. We only have each other and the Lord. God alone suffices for those who believe. I don't know how those who don't make it.
On Good Friday, I was walking to pick up some pre-ordered groceries when I came across a man who was in an odd position in the street by the curb. It looked like he had fallen to his knees, but with one leg awkwardly behind him, his head pressed in his lap. I stopped and asked him if was ok, but there was no response. I could see he was breathing but I wasn't sure if this was a drug induced stupor, if he'd fallen ill or had been assaulted. I asked him in a loud voice if he could get up, and he startled and clumsily got to his feet. He was still feeling the high of whatever he had taken. I got him to sit on a bench that miraculously was nearby and asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital. "No" was all he said. I could have called the paramedics, who would have given him Narcan and angered him for ruining his high, but I didn't. I asked him if I could call anyone for him and he told me to leave him alone. I left him there, convinced that for now, he was safe from getting hit by a bike or a car.
He wasn't the first addict I've picked up out of the street, nor will he be the last. Every time I encounter someone like him, I wonder about the parents, siblings or spouse that might be wondering where such a person is and do what I do for them and not so much the wayward lamb who might have been behaving more like a rabid dog when asked to leave and not come back.
The pandemic of 2020 began during Lent, and some remarked that it felt like the holy season of penitence went on forever. My son was living in a recovery house at the time and had a job in a restaurant where he worked long hours and often on scheduled days off. Then the lockdowns began and restaurants closed or reduced staff. It wasn't the time to look for another job and while the unemployment compensation was more than enough for him to survive, the idle hands were deadly. I can't say I was shocked when he called to tell us he'd relapsed and at the insistence of his house manager, was on his way to rehab. I could also tell by his voice that he wasn't in agreement with this decision but knew he had no choice. It was the evening of Spy Wednesday when they picked him and took him to inpatient detox.
Parents of children in recovery know that the one time we have peace of mind is when our kids are in rehab, which should be the safest place for them. But that peace was shattered for me around 11:30 on Good Friday when I got a call from his counselor, with him present and on speaker, to tell him he'd decided to leave against medical advice.
"Really Matt? You're going to do this to me and to yourself on Good Friday? Can't you wait until the end of the day and see if you feel differently about this?"
"No" was all he said and then I asked him where he was going and he told me he'd be with a sponsor. I understood that no sponsor would agree to such a thing and that he was on his way to get high with one of his addicted friends. I asked him for his friend's name and number, but he said goodbye and hung up.
Now because of the pandemic, there were no in-person Holy Week services and the hours for making a visit had passed. All I could do was pace and pray in the house. Friday night came and went, and so did Holy Saturday. I made my customary visit to the cemetery to pray a Rosary for my dead grandparents and wondered who'd be getting buried there next. A part of me, deep within I know not where, said that I was being given a special cross in solidarity with Mary, who also didn't know anything but what she had witnessed and what she believed was to come, but had yet to see. I didn't want to squander this cross, but I also didn't want it to end in an overdose in a dirty room somewhere in Kensington. My mind did what it's done so often since learning of my son's addiction - it went there, the unspeakable vision of a child's funeral.
Not my will but Thine be done.
On Easter Sunday, we watched Mass from St. John Cantius in Chicago. I threw a leg of lamb in the oven and went for a Rosary walk. I had compartmentalized, as so many of us learn to do, the depression and anxiety I felt and as I so often do in moments of desperation, I approached Mary, mother to Mother, and asker her to help me get peace of mind. I just needed to know, one way or another, where my son was.
As I was making my way back home in the effort to rescue the lamb from the oven in time, an unfamiliar number came up on my phone. I answered it, assuming it was someone I didn't know who was going to tell me that my son had finally exhausted his luck. Instead, it was an admissions counselor from another rehab facility, telling me that Matt had shown up and asked to be admitted. He begged her to call me because he knew I'd be out of my mind with worry.
I would never compare myself or my son to Mary and Jesus, but at that moment, I felt like I had walked inside the empty tomb and found the burial cloths, folded and left behind. God had taken pity on both his servants. The runaway lamb had been found and was being carried back to the barn on the shoulders of the Shepherd.
That night, I got another call from a counselor who said that although it was policy not to allow phone calls with patients this early in the stay, she was going to permit Matt and I to have a brief conversation. When he got on the phone he was sobbing and inconsolable, the way I had known him to be so many times throughout his short life that had been marked with so much pain and rejection. With a borderline IQ and pervasive developmental delay, the last thing he needed was to become addicted. Through the sobs, he told me how sorry he was for the hurt he'd caused and ruining my Easter and he was afraid that I still didn't know where he was. I reassured him that I'd found out earlier in the day and that all was well and I was so happy he was ok and that we'd talk in a few days.
Again by the grace of God, he was able to maintain 3 years of sobriety before he fell again, but he got up and with my help provided by the grace of God, he turned himself around again.
Not every mother is so lucky. More of his friends in his circle of addiction have passed than have recovered. Some of our kids are robbed by gun violence, or cancer, or poor decisions made in a spur of a moment that results in accidental death. Some of our kids are held captive by terrorists, others by mental illness with no name and no cure. Everyone will agree that the not knowing is the worst; that is, unless the worst actually happens and the answer you get is not one any parent wants.
It was my intention to write and post this yesterday but the busyness of life postponed it and then I saw the beautiful reflection from Fr. Jim Martin SJ and thought it was time to add mine.
By the grace of God go I. Mothers of Holy Saturday, God bless you and the children on whom you are waiting, one way or another.
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