Adapting to Life by Way of Divine Grace

It’s amazing to me how the human spirit learns to adapt. We fall into routines so quickly and the horrifically abnormal somehow becomes normal.

I woke up this morning and did what I’ve done every day for two months. I checked the computer to see if my son was still at the county jail where he’s been for almost a year. I do this because two months ago he was sentenced to prison for a number of years. They told him he’d leave 1-3 weeks after sentencing. Things got delayed and we waited. We don’t get a memo or embossed save-the-date card for this event, for security reasons. The inmates leave during the night whenever their card is drawn.

Last night was the night. When I checked this morning, where there had been three names, there was only one. The newly sentenced inmates get sent to a reception center. Everytime I think of it, I picture little Dixie cups filled with orange juice, pink flamingos and bottles with ships in them. Maybe a welcome sign or two, some peanut brittle and a cheery woman wearing a sunshine state t-shirt. Then I flash back to reality.

We were expecting Orlando, 45 or so minutes away. Just like the rest of this odyssey, it’s best to expect the unexpected. Thanks to a good friend, who works for the state prison system, I was able to find out in a matter of hours–Lake Butler, near the Georgia border, almost three hours away. I’m thinking of every bad-Georgia cop movie I’ve ever seen when I contemplate the officers whose mercy my son will have to depend on. Not a comforting thought. Not at all.

This phase is for mental, physical and vocational testing and it’s different than what he’s been doing every day for the past year–a lot of nothing. This phase is temporary, like life and the situations it hurls at us. This phase, like the rest of it, is scary because it’s new and unfamiliar.

I grew oddly comfortable with the other place where Cain, the Rastafarian spiritualist, counseled and comforted my only child. Where Ivan, the not so terrible, took the time to pen a letter for my son to take with him to prison–filled with love and guidance, a rare remembrance of someone who cares. Where Josiah, the ordained minister, also known for his ”Big Pimpin’” abilities, with five women on his visitation list, made my boy laugh and helped him understand the Bible. Where Officer C. brought movies and told my most treasured gift on this earth that he was proud of him. And where Officer J. told the group, “Your Mammas didn’t raise you to be inmates.” No, we sure didn’t. I miss them already. Like I said, we adapt to the strangest circumstances.

And so tonight I’ll begin the process of re-adapting as has been my assignment for five years, after his life began to spin helplessly out of control.

Humbling experience? I checked out the new facility’s website and scrolled through the names. When I clicked on my son’s name, I braced myself. I’ve never been able to look at his mugshot before. The one I saw was obviously taken when he got to the new place. Is it just maternal projection or does he really look terrified and is there a huge tear resting precariously in his right eye? Or is it my imagination? Please let it be my imagination.

As I forced myself to stare at the picture, my mind’s eye flashed to the same face in baby pictures, where hopes and dreams and happiness lived. Before they were shattered. It seems like only seconds passed before the two realities collided.

It’s only God’s grace that allows us to adapt and lights the way as we venture unwillingly into the unknown and the unplanned. And when we turn to look back before we continue into the darkness, the faces of Cain and Josiah and Ivan and Officer C. and Officer J. smile kindly, wishing us well. They reassure us that God’s grace never stays behind and that hopes and dreams never have to stay shattered. We don’t have to let them.