Singing and Dancing in Heaven

Continued from Glory Train

I'm going to take a brief detour. But bare with me, there will be a connection. There always is. 

My sister-in law, Holly, died on May 6 after a five week battle with cancer. Her family and friends were breathless wondering how this vibrant and active sixty-five year old could have ever become so sick. She had always made healthy choices and taken care of herself. Good genes were on her side, as her dear grandmother, Gigi, the first, (Holly was Gigi to her grandchildren too) had died only six years earlier at the age of 104.  And Holly ran. Tens of thousands of miles of daily runs, races and marathons. Holly was the picture of health.

When we learned not long after her diagnosis, that she was failing fast, we drove down to Jacksonville Florida. We were painfully aware that it could be our last visit with this fun and funny woman who had been my "sister" since 1978.

As we prepared to make the trip, I had Roma on my mind. How could we lose two loved ones in five short months? I was remembering when Holly was here visiting about ten years ago, and she rode with me as I picked up Roma and his buddy Lee at football camp.  The cocky confident preteens got in the back seat and immediately begin telling us how great they were, the best players in their groups.  Holly and I exchanged glances and even comments as the two stars in the backseat went on and on, and on, about their amazing passes and catches and tackles.  They were one-upping each other as Holly and I chuckled about those sweet boys in the back that didn't have a humble bone in their bodies. 

Remembering that frozen moment in time, I started thinking about those fun days of Roma's youth and taking him to football practice on those crisp autumn evenings.  He would toss his equipment in the back seat, slam the door, turn the radio to his station, and turn up the volume. I remembered a song that I hadn't heard in years. I suddenly wanted to hear the awful song, because it would remind me of my dear boy. The tune of Ridin' (I had to look up the title) was on my mind, unfortunately, for a few hours as we prepared to leave for Jacksonville.

After an eleven hour drive (thank God cars run out of gas, or my eager-to-get-to-his-destination husband would have never stopped) we parked and tried to find our way into the wing where Holly was a patient. Being in a hospital for the first time since Roma's accident hurt my heart. I couldn't help but think back to the last time we ran into a hospital with heads spinning, asking for directions. It surprised me how hard it was to see Holly laying in the hospital bed, so weak and sick.  Did I imagine I could feel Roma with us in Holly's room? By then we knew, unless God provided a miracle, Holly would be joining Roma soon. I couldn't help but sense he was close. We visited for three hours, then made our way back to the parking deck, wondering if Holly would be alive for our visit the next day.

As Bruce was weaving through the parking deck to find the exit, what song should come on the radio? If you didn't guess Ridin' you haven't been paying attention!

"OH MY GOSH," I said, a little too loud to my shocked husband. "I was JUST thinking of that song!" 

"You know that's not the radio?" questioned Bruce, looking at me curiously.

"What?" I leaned forward to hear an answer that wasn't making any sense. Of course it was the radio.

"It's my Pandora station."

I gasped! Bruce's Pandora stations feature songs by R.E.M., Simon and Garfunkel, Mumford and Son, the Lumineers, Neil Yong. Old people music. Never in a million years would "Ridin' " appear on ANY playlist Bruce would create. 

And yet, here we were listening to a song that gave me a strange JOY. Enjoy Ridin', if you can. Bruce and I laughed as we listened to the whole song. 

In the days after we knew Holly's joining Roma was eminent, I was thinking of that song. Which song would remind me of Holly?  I thought back to twenty years earlier when our families were on a cruise together. I had a picture memory of Holly singing Love Shack and dancing with reckless abandon. 

Saturday night, a day after Holly passed, Bruce and I went to a wedding. While at the reception we left the venue for a brief time after dinner, and strolled around the Carroll Creek area in downtown Frederick Maryland. When we returned, we were in the lobby, avoiding the loud music so we could talk to a cousin who we don't see often enough. She said she had gone back in to dance  to Love Shack," because it was her sister-in-law's favorite.

I thought her comment random and odd, considering she had no knowledge of my thought of Holly linked to that song and she mentioned no other song. But I'm glad she told me they had played Love Shack, otherwise we would have never known it played while party-goers danced, one day, almost to the hour of Holly's and Roma's re-connection. 
(Aside--Is anyone else wondering why Ridin' has over 100 million views, and Love Shack only 7.5 million?)I pray that Holly's grieving family will experience miracles that have given us comfort and assurance for the past five months since Roma died,  that those we've loved and lost are not far.  But really, we have not lost Roma or Holly. We know exactly where they are! They are singing and dancing in HEAVEN! And if we have EYES to SEE, sometimes we get a glimpse beyond the thin veil.I thank God,  for His mercies are brand new every day! 


Continue with More Light Bulbs

Glory Train

Continued from The Sorrow

Before we left the hospital Sunday day, the nurse gave us a number to call. It was an unfamiliar name, but she told me it was Roma's boss. He had called the hospital so many times to ask about Roma's condition, which they were not permitted to share, they had to ask him to quit calling. They promised they would give us his information and we would call him, if we wished. They had given us Bobby's number too late to call him back, almost midnight, but I suspect Bobby was sleepless and  would have welcomed a call at any hour.

The hospital called early to say Roma's brain scan was complete and he was pronounced dead on December 7, at 7:16 am.  Bruce called Bobby, and as soon as Bruce introduced himself,  I could hear Bobby's eager voice asking, "How's Roma?" When Bruce told this stranger that Roma didn't make it, Bobby started crying on his end, as his grief brought a new wave of my own.

Before we left to return to the hospital, I listened to a voice mail from another unknown number. Our new financial advisor who I had yet to meet in person called with a urgent message. She was a friend of my sister.  She sounded desperate, urging us not to give up. Her own son had been declared "brain dead" in 1994. Doctors discussed organ donation with her. But her son survived! He was doing okay, although he did suffer a traumatic brain injury which had lasting consequences.  She said everyone in her office had stopped work to pray together for Roma, a boy they had never met. She gave me this verse to hang onto.  "God has not given us a Spirit of fear, but of power and love and self-control." 2 Timothy 1:7

Then Kellie called. She hadn't checked her phone until hours after I sent the first hysterical text, and even then didn't accept the diagnosis that the injury "wasn't compatible with life." Not until she got my message asking her to ask her Russian-speaking friend to translate a message for Liana and Lia did she know that it appeared that Roma wasn't going to live. Even then she couldn't grasp it. "Mom, Roma can't be dead. God isn't done using him."

So, with a stranger and Kellie encouraging me not to lose hope, we headed to the hospital, praying for a miracle, half expecting Roma to be sitting up in bed, laughing when we entered his room, telling me I worry too much.

Bruce and I prayed for a miracle all the way to the hospital, an hour away, but when we were directed to his new room on a different floor, again in room number seven, Roma didn't appear to be rallying.  

A friend who is a nurse, Teri, met us at the hospital just hours after Roma had been declared dead. She stayed with us all afternoon. They had cleaned him up. He looked better, like he was resting. How could he be "dead." I leaned over his warm chest, rising and falling with even breaths, and spoke love into his ear. When the nurses mentioned organ donation, I told them I wasn't ready to talk about that yet. Maybe God was still going to give us a dramatic miracle.

Teri, so kind and gentle, told me I didn't have to hurry, that we should let everyone know I wanted more time.  "Maybe it would help if you saw the brain scans." We agreed that that might help.  

A compassionate doctor met with us in a private room and went slowly, image by image of Roma's brain scan. Even though I don't know much about brains, even I could tell Roma's scan wasn't normal.  Although this seemed hopeless, I knew it wasn't too big for God! I asked how long before they harvested his organs, and when they said they would keep him alive for another 24-48 hours before that happened. If we waited longer, his organs might deteriorate. We reasoned that if God were going to deliver a miracle, surely that would be enough time. 

As we prepared to go home, I asked Bruce if we could come back the next day. My dear husband broke down. I realized the depth of his pain. "I can't do this another day," he said. "To sit here all day. . ." Tears ran down both cheeks.

Poor Bruce. He had driven four hours the night before, in silence, having to be mindful of us arriving safely, as I cried, railed, texted friends, made some phone calls. I can only write about my emotions. I'm sure his story is equally poignant. We haven't talked much about that night yet. I know how I felt. I do not know all that went on in my husband's head and heart. I know it was every bit as excruciating for him. He had to be strong for the rest of us. And Bruce is the strongest man I know.

As if our driveway was being observed, when we got home that Monday night, the door bell started ringing. Friends and neighbors began arriving with food in hand and sharing our tears. The next morning, the steady stream of visitors  came all day. And the flower deliveries. 

There is as bubble that encircles people during grief. At least that was the case with Bruce and me. It was nice to have all the people there, talking to each other, as I felt out-of-body, witnessing and not having to participant in all the conversations. I'm sure I did take part, but the "bubble" experience prevented it all from being too real.  

I remember at one point in the dream of that Tuesday, December 8, I was thinking that Roma got on that train that we all will get on one day. How like impulsive Roma to rush to the front of the line. But somehow thinking of Roma on that train, bound for Glory, gave me some comfort. It was a visual for me to hold on too.

One of the talking friends who directed conversation in my direction as I zoned out, said, "Roma just got on an earlier train they we did."

I turned and looked at her. Was she here earlier when I had that exact same thought? No, that was in the wee hours. I think. Did I say it aloud and she heard me?  I wish I could think clearly.  "I have had that same thought. About the train. Interesting."

All these people. I had gotten a notebook out to record the food coming in. All these neighbors who knew Roma better than they knew me. Roma, who never met a stranger, loved people. He always had a kind word and always made people feel important, like he really cared about them, because  he did.

At two we had an appointment with the funeral home. They left us with assignments: to send 75 photos for Roma's slide show, and select music to accompany it. I hardly had time to be alone to go through photos. Everyone shared photos of Roma I had never seen, so many of our choices came from what his friends shared. The woman at the funeral home talked to us at length about Roma. When we saw the completed video days later, I knew Roma would be pleased. It opened with a football theme, and the long pass, just the kind he loved to catch.

In the late afternoon when the house was empty and quiet, sat in my sunroom, where I like to read, and picked up a book by my chair. It was a devotional, by  Louie Giglio. Roma had brought it home a year earlier when he returned from Atlanta. He was proud of his gift to me, which as probably a gift from Nancy in Atlanta. I hadn't read much of it over the past year, as I had my favorites already. But, for some reason, I decided to go to the back, wondering what was written on the day Roma died. "

December 7 began "Be still and know that I am God." it began. That verse had become a Sacred Echo for me in the past two years. When I would go to my War Room, my goal was to get to that place where I could let the world fall away, be still, and listen to God. I suffer from distraction and maybe a little, or more than a little, Attention Deficit Disorder. 

So that Psalm awoke me, and I read with anticipation of something Divine. 

Well, it wasn't bad, it did speak of Jesus' power over darkness and the grave. And seeing him face to face.  I would hang onto that. 


Then I turned the page. That's when I saw it. Photos didn't illustrate every day's devotion, but on December 7, a very encouraging photo accompanied that day's devotion. It was a photo of an empty train track  with a cross in the back ground.

Roma's train had left the station. He was was Bound for Glory. And, in a day of many tears, that image made me smile. 

Continue with Singing and Dancing in Heaven

The Sorrow

Continued from Ladders and Doors.



The next day, Sunday, December 6, was a laid back day. We were staying at the lake until Monday, but hadn't told Roma. I always wanted him to think we could be home any minute. Bruce texted him to see if he was still working. When he said he was, Bruce told him to be very careful because he had fallen off a ladder the day before. Bruce was not sore the day after his fall.

At 5:10 pm, my phone rang. I saw it was from a neighbor back home. For some reason, her call scared me. In the instant I was answering, I was hoping the call was about wall paint colors. I had helped Robin chose a color a few weeks earlier, and she said she would invite me down to see the room when she was done painting.

"Hey Debbie, are you at home?" Okay, this sounded exactly how our last conversation had started before she invited me over to tell her what was wrong with her paint color choice, and chose a better one. I was hoping she was inviting me to see the finished project.

"No, we're at the lake," I said with my heart pounding, hoping against hope she had paint on her mind. But her voice sounded strained.

"There is a police car in your driveway. He's been standing on your porch for a while, and looking in your windows. "

"I'm afraid something has happened to Roma," I blurted out. "I'll call you right back"

I texted Roma, "Call me!" and a split second later, "Now!"

Nothing. As I listened desperately to the cosmos in which we had experienced profound connectedness, there was a terrifying silence in a universe minus Roma. I could no longer hear his spirit, no longer feel his energy. The frequency that ignited the invisible wires connecting Roma and me was severed. I knew he was gone.  

I called Taylor who was at work, explaining the police in the driveway. I didn't share my sure knowledge of his brother.  He was going to head home to address the police officer.

I called Robin back, asking is she could go to my house and give the policeman my cell number.

A few minutes later, my phone rang. I handed it to Bruce because I could not talk. He put it on speaker as the officer introduced himself and confirmed my fear. "Are you the father of Roma Michael"

"Yes." Bruce said breathlessly.

"There's been an accident. Your son fell from a ladder and sustained a head injury. He is on route to shock trauma in Baltimore. All I can say is he was breathing when they left. You can reach the hospital at this number."

I was already face down in a chair, on my knees, sobbing, pleading with God to rewind the afternoon. Please God, no, please, no, please no."  

Like a caged animal, I paced as Bruce dialed the hospital. I tried to listened to the doctor over the beating of my heart. "Your son has sustained a devastating head wound. This injury is not compatible with life."

This injury is not compatible with life.

Somehow, I already knew that.

In total numbness, I went upstairs and packed our stuff to go home. Bruce called the couple who had invited us to dinner to tell them why we would not be there in an hour, as they were expecting. We walked around the house, and at 6:00, we both managed to find our way to the car. Shock Trauma and the University of Maryland was four hours away.

While poor Bruce drove in silence, I texted away, spraying prayer requests in all directions.  I hated to send text messages to my children, imagining their reaction as they read the grim details. But I didn't trust myself to speak. Bruce called a few people, a friend from church, Lucinda, who would get the word out, and his sister, Holly.  When I trusted myself to speak, I called my sister, Weegie.

It was not like the movies. We didn't cry in long jags. Only in short hysterical spurts. The four-hour ride was surreal, and much faster than I would have anticipated. Our friend Dawn had ask me to text her when we passed our home exit on the highway, because she was  going to meet us at shock trauma with another friend, Debbie.  Someone called to say our pastor Steve and another friend, Kathy were already at Shock Trauma waiting for our arrival.

When we parked and went to the family waiting area, I was in the fog that God must have devised for our protection. I remember talking to a kind and sympathetic nurse, telling her what an honor it had been to be Roma's mom.  I told Bruce that we were not going to have any guilt because we had loved Roma well. I was satisfied that he always knew he was dearly loved.

 When our friend Kathy approached with a teary hug, she was wearing a bright green sweatshirt.  All I could think of was that morning, which seemed like years ago now, as the sun was breaking, and the color I had seen in the sunlight and on a door. Was there a connection? I told Kathy to remind me to tell her about that color sometime.

We were guided back to room number 7, where Roma lay. Bruce thought I might not like to go in and see him like that. But I had to see him. 

He was so warm as I leaned over him, my arm across his chest, to talk in his ear.

Some of his friends called me, having heard the news or having called his phone that the police officer had left with Taylor. Taylor answered the constantly ringing phone and broke the devastating news to incredulous friends. His Fork Union friend, Ben, called, sobbing. I held the phone to Roma's ear so Ben could tell him what he wanted Roma to hear. Then a former girlfriend, Amanda called, having just heard. Then other friends called. How did news travel so fast?

We met with the doctors who confirmed Roma would not survive. They asked about organ donation.  He said that after a brain scan in the morning, they were determine a time of death. 

How could we be calmly sitting around a table with strangers talking about such grim topics as brain death and organ harvesting in the same sentence with vibrant and beautiful Roma?  We headed home just after midnight, with plans to return in the morning.  Hopefully by then we could say this day had only been dream, a terrible nightmare.  But I knew there would be no such awakening. 

"Okay, Bruce," I offered our battle plan, "the next couple of days will be the worst of our lives. But we can make it. Together. God is still good."

My Sunday school memorization came back to me.  The twenty-third Psalm. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and they staff they comfort me." 

We slept fitfully. I was up often checking messages. Sending emails, answering texts.  On Facebook, hundreds of posts about Roma exploded on my news-feed. At first they were vague and cryptic, "praying for your family," messages. Private messages frantically asked what in the world was going on.

I suddenly remembered with a fresh wave of anguish,  Liana and Lia, Roma's first sister and aunt, who we had found less than a year earlier in Russia and the Republic of Georgia. We were now Facebook friends.  I didn't want them to learn on Facebook that we lost Roma, so soon after they found him.  One private message from one of Roma's other local mothers, Lynn, asked how she might help. I wrote back about my  concern about Roma's bio family learning on Facebook, without an explanation. She set to work asking Roma's friends to refrain from posting and/or remove their posts about Roma until I could get a carefully constructed message to Liana and Lia. 

I didn't trust the online translator I used, for it often had odd translations. I composed a message as unambiguous and sensitive as I could and emailed it to Kellie to have a Russian-speaking friend translate it. As soon as I got that back, I sent Liana and Lia messages with the news I knew would break their hearts too. 

Then I posted the news on Facebook to answer the growing concern and questions, and to ask for prayers. 

Continue with Glory Train

Ladders and doors

Continued from Thanksgiving

On Saturday morning, December 5, I left our lake house to run some errands a half hour away. Bruce had chores around the house.  

It was one of those exceptionally beautiful mornings. Although December isn't my favorite month to be outside, when vegetation is dead and the weather is blustery, the lighting on this particular morning raised my awareness. The clouds were dramatic white and gray contrasts against the darker-than-usual blue sky. The majesty of the heavens caught me off guard. I was suddenly overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. I couldn't imagine my life could get any better than it was at that moment. I began praying aloud, thanking God for my wonderful life and family, and praying aloud for the protection of each one of them by name.

As I approached our driveway, I notice the ladder was propped against the house. Use of the ladder when home alone is contrary to our rules. If Bruce cleans gutters, I need to be there to secure the ladder, or call for help if needed. Holding my breath, I drove up the short, steep hill of our driveway, craning my neck to see the floor of the deck. I was relieved to NOT see my risk-taking husband sprawled unconscious beneath the ladder. I winced, remembering the "vision" in my closet. when I had assumed it was Roma I "saw" falling from a ladder. I had had too many thoughts about ladders lately. 

He was glad to see me home. He met me at the door to tell me excitedly that he had fallen off the ladder. As I silently rewound to my prayers of thanksgiving and protection for my family earlier that morning, Bruce babbled, marveling that he was spared injury.
  

"It was only by the grace of God, I wasn't hurt," he kept saying. He had climbed the ladder to the roof level, but the ladder was too upright and began to fall backwards, away from the house, with Bruce hanging on. He related that he had fallen in slow motion, and it was "miraculous" that he had the presence of mind to push the ladder away from himself, so it wouldn't hit him when he landed on the driveway. He rolled when he landed and only had a scuff on his shoulder. "It is only by the grace of God that I am not hurt," he repeated several times.

I scolded him for climbing the ladder while alone. I told him of my overwhelming gratitude while I was away that led me to praise God and also pray for the safety of my family. That moment of prayer, led obliviously by the Holy Spirit,  had been one of those moments of heightened awareness of God's almost tangible presence I experience sometimes. I wish there were more of those moments in my life: maybe there are, but I don't always recognize them. When I do,  I'm always overwhelmed by the sudden recognition of them. They are hard to describe. It's like at one moment I'm not even thinking about it, whatever "it" is, and the next moment, I'm surprised by profound understanding of it. And this sudden knowing always catches me by surprise.

I thought Bruce might be sore from his fifteen foot arc from roof to asphalt as the day progressed, but every reminder had him praising God he wasn't hurt, or worse.

At 4:30, I texted Roma, " How was your game? Who won?"

Roma: "We won!  I threw a touchdown!"

Me: "Great job! What was the score?"

Roma: "27 to 6."

I told Bruce to text him too, more often than usual, so he would know we were thinking of him, and so he would remember our trust in his word that he would behave himself.    

The next morning, I awoke as the early sun had ever so slightly begun to light the sky. I was startled by a green glow in the room.  As I lifted my head from my pillow, I was surprised by the morning light. I never noticed this before. Was it an optical illusion? I closed my eyes for a few seconds. When I opened them again, the room was still filled with green, almost like a gas. I rolled on my right side, facing the open door of the bathroom. Not only was the room glowing green, but the color now seemed to be concentrated on the open door of solid oak five feet in front of me. It was another heightened awareness moment. I started to wake Bruce to show him, but I doubted if he would see what I saw, so I dismissed the idea. Bruce is a light sleeper, and may not be able to go back to sleep, I reasoned. And he would try to give me a logical explanation of why the oak door was green. I didn't want him to try to explain it to me, as my scientist husband was likely to attempt. I just wanted to know if he saw what I saw so clearly.

I was puzzled.  Bright chartreuse. I had never noticed light was that color in the first moments of morning. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, thinking I might go back to sleep. Then I opened them again. The door was still glowing green in the early morning light. What in the world? I studied the edges of the door. The room glow faded and the green no longer extended beyond the edges of the door, but it was not like the oak door was painted that color. The color shifted and blurred at the edges of the door, like I looking through a gas vapor.

 I still do not know what it was all about. If a reader has some insight, I am eager to hear. A scientific explanation of the peculiar sight is impossible, in my humble opinion. 

Continue with The Sorrow

Thanksgiving

Continued from Dreams

As we neared the end of November, in the sixth week of Roma's return home, I marveled that this approaching Thanksgiving represented even more reasons for gratitude, as my blessings magnified as all four of my children were adults and even the baby was suddenly acting like one.

I could had hardly grasp the abundance of the miracles. For example, Roma talked about his eagerness to find a church where he could learn more about God. He possessed a new hunger for God, this God who was not far away or silent,  who had relentlessly pursued him with an outrageous love that had worn my boy down. Suddenly Roma's eyes were wide open.

One morning on the way to work, he surprised me with a intimate confession. "Mom," he paused too long, probably wondering if he would regret sharing, in case he later lost this new conviction and feared I would be reminding him of it daily. But he continued, "I want to save myself for marriage." 

Riding in a car, with our eyes ahead and rarely making eye contact, made a safe place for honest talk. Sex had never been a taboo topic between Roma and me. But we were always on opposite sides of the debate. Roma considered my views that sex was not a casual matter as prehistoric. Now he seemed to understand the wisdom of my stance. Even if that proverbial bridge had been crossed in the past, he could see the wisdom in backtracking and waiting to cross again. 

What was happening in this boys heart? It appeared there was a transformation going on, at least for that moment. An hour later, the bridge might look inviting again. But as Saint Augustine had confessed at Roma's age, that although his lips were saying, "Lord make me chaste, his heart was adding, "but please don't do it just yet!"

I was thankful that Roma's "intent" was sincere and mature. And holy. One of Jesus' most repeated themes in the Bible is admonishing us to lose Ourselves to save ourselves. We have to give up what we most desire as a sacrifice to God, laying our "Isaac" down, and recognizing and "dying" to the idol of the almighty "Self." It is the hardest thing we will ever try to do, and it can't be achieved without the  indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Maybe that's why Jesus tells us it must be done. We know God's will is best for us, but we are always wondering how painful His plans for us will be. I have learned that we do well to follow Him. But, like Roma, I too often want my own way. 

Thanksgiving 2015

Thanksgiving brought the whole family home to Maryland for the first time in almost a year. I had decorated for Christmas early, since not all family members would be back for Christmas. 

Heather's family of four arrived from Pittsburgh, PA, four hours away,  and Kellie's family of seven drove half a day from Wisconsin. Taylor shared his apartment downstairs with the grandchildren's play times. Dolls and accessories were drug out from storage and dumped buckets of Legos made walking hazardous in Taylor's apartment, keeping upstairs floors traversable for seven children under the age of nine and eight adults.  

Roma spent more time than usual with us over the holidays, playing cards and other games, and generally enjoying being a loved member of the family.  I was  happy to have the whole family, fifteen family members sleeping under the same roof for almost a week, because I knew they all wouldn't be back for Christmas. Kellie's family would spend Christmas in Wisconsin with her in-laws.

My birthday fell in the Thanksgiving weekend. Roma wanted to buy me flowers. He asked where to buy them, and what to buy, still in need of his mother's help.

"Roma, please don't buy me flowers. I appreciate the sweet thought, but I do NOT want you to buy me anything. Really, just behaving yourself is present enough for me!" I teased. 

"Ha ha, Mom. Very funny."

I didn't want him to spend his limited funds on flowers for me. The only kind of flowers I really love are pink roses, and I had enough of them painted on furniture, on my dishes, sheets,  all over the house. Roma could spend his money on football and his entertainment, and throw a few cents into his car fund every now and then.

As everyone was packing up to leave after a week, Roma escorted everyone out to their cars, in his socks, and hugged everyone individually and said a personal goodbye, moving to every car window to wave and smile at strapped-in children, giving his sisters and brothers-in-law a final hug. Kellie mentioned weeks later, after the sorrow, that it was almost as if Roma knew it was his final farewell.

The next week,  Bruce and I were going to risk leaving Roma home with only Taylor as his supervisor.  We had not risked leaving Roma unattended since he arrived home on October 19.  After seven weeks, we had to make a trip to West Virginia to check on our lake house and visit Bruce's mother in the nursing home.

We appealed to Roma's sense of honor as we told him we were trusting him to make good decisions while we were away.  We learned his first football game was on Saturday afternoon. I was disappointed to miss it.  We rarely missed any of Roma's games since he started at age twelve. We had the pleasure of finishing his high school career, driving five hours to watch him play in the Virginia State Championship game at Liberty University in December, 2013.  

"Mom, it's just a charity game," he assured me.  "You can come next time." That would have to do, because we had never gone seven weeks without checking on Bruce's mom and the lake house.

He had his game, and because of rain in the middle of the week, he was going to have to work on Sunday to finally finish a job that had run much longer than expected. He usually came home tired after work. He would be occupied for at least two of the three days we would be away from home. We were going to have to trust that that he could be trusted. 

Continue with Ladders and Doors

Dreams

Continued from Be Still, My Heart

"I dreamed about a huge whirlpool last night." Roma shared one morning on the drive in to work. I stole quick glances at his serious face as I drove.  I could tell he was still seeing the swirling water as he recounted it. "I stepped out the front door, and," he swung his arms out in front of him in wide circular motions, "the water was high and rushing in circles."  After he told me he felt "something big" was coming a week earlier, I listened intently as he shared his thoughts, whether sleeping or awake. 

His dream suddenly reminded me of my own. I shared the details with him. I was floating down a rapid river, observing crashed boats and trapped debris against the shore line on both sides. That was all. Just a scene of devastation.  

Is there anything to our dreams? Sigmund Freud certainly thought so. So did the inspired authors or the Bible. I have experienced strange "coincidences" with dreams all my life. So when, in a dream, a friend told me to "write all this  down" two years ago, retold in Angel and Demons, part one, I knew it wasn't simply a suggestion. I am grateful to have documented the series of miracles that began the following days.

I went through a season about twenty years ago, before adoption was on my radar, when I had vivid dreams, often just a "picture" dream, a broken doll, for example, but I would see the exact thing the following day. If you are skeptical, just do an online search for something like "dreaming something before it happens." Many others report similar experiences. Yes, it sounds weird, and makes me hesitant to confess. And, no, there is no scientific explanation for those who believe science can explain everything. The strange experiences ultimately resulted in my heightened consciousness of Something out there, greater than myself. That awareness put me on a quest, though superficial at the start, because I was ignorant of the cosmic depth I continue to this day to plumb.

I never saw any shoreline destruction or a whirlpool in the days after our dreams At least not literal ones. While writing this post, I just searched for the "meaning" of the dream of whirlpools, though I'm not sure who interprets the meaning of dreams, or how they can be trusted for reliability or accuracy. Then I searched for my river dream. 

I'm not going to get hung up on dreams and their meanings, although I will circle back to this at a later date. I'm acknowledging only that Roma and I were on the same frequency. There was a telepathy that connected us, with each other and with God. Years before I even knew there was a Roma, police delivered the playful, youngster (who was surely pushing buttons on the police car radio, maybe even asking to drive) to a Russian orphanage. As this was happening, God began His persistent Call for me to go get this boy! It took a while before I understood what was going on, and longer before I surrendered to a relentless, albeit benevolent Father-God whose ways are certainly not my ways. But I am thankful God saw some worthiness in me and potential to be transformed. The assignment of raising Roma was daunting, for sure, but an extravagant blessing for which I can only repay with future trust and surrender. 

Merciful God kept showing me that Roma's and my bond meant something in life. And that bond would continue after death. 

The topic of dreams will come up again in a later post. I Just wanted you to ruminate on the phenomenon for now. Please share if you have thoughts or have experienced similar encounters with dreams. 

Continue with Thanksgiving

Be Still, My Heart

Continued from Foreboding

After the first couple rocky weeks, Roma and our family settled into a copasetic rhythm. Roma worked. He was sweet and respectful. His texts were kind and grateful when asking me to change our routine for his transportation needs.

He made the semi-pro football team he tried out for, earning the quarterback position. Roma had to look the part, ordering more new equipment and practice clothing. His car fund dwindled, but he was so happy, I saved my financial advice for another time. And the consequence of no car was that I got to continue spending travel time with him.

Mother's Day, 2015

I yearned for wholeness for this beautiful young man who, in his never-humble opinion, believed he had already arrived at that destination.  I saw his vast potential and his abundant gifts. But he possessed a child-like innocence that was hardly compatible with real life. I remember an observation of  our adoption agency's social worker who was also an adoptive mom. She shared that her bio children had received eighteen years of in-family care. The adopted ones might need the same amount of time, even if they were 25 when they could leave the nest. I was finally ready to accept that possibility.

Roma was so dear, and, when not determined to be the boss, he was a delight. That's it. Roma delighted me. That in itself was a new mercy and miracle. God had brought him home and reminded me what a treasure he was. A "diamond in the rough," a teacher once called him. Yes, Roma's light shone more brightly than most, even if he wasn't yet fully polished. If he needed so stay home several more years, that would be okay.

The vision, in my War Room, if it were indeed that, haunted me, but I was determined not to allow fear in my heart. I pushed aside the sense of impending suffering that began just before Roma was released from Fork Union in March, 2013, for his blatant disregard for rules: his sixth offense of dipping tobacco. Likely it was that memory that fueled my overactive imagination and reignited an ember of dread, that led to a rogue thought in myprayer closet. I resolved to push out the darkness that infiltrated my current joy. Fear is always the enemy, trying to steal my peace each day, when I currently overflowed with gratitude.

Roma was going to a new church with his friend Tom. He talked about going to a young adult Bible study. He was hungry for Truth. He even agreed to visited the teen Bible study where I serve as a Kitchen lady, preparing the meals for the teens. But at twenty-one, Roma felt he was too old to continue with the group after his initial visit. He left a lasting impression on all in attendance with his relaxed demeanor and warm humor,  especially with the teenage girls. But he promised me he and Tom would find a Bible study for their age group.

"Mom, I feel like something big is coming," he told me one morning in the car on the forth week he was home. These trips to meet his boss were evolving into deep conversations about faith and the future. He would tell me about his dreams, searching for meaning in them.

"What do you think is coming, Roma?" I asked because his thoughts fascinated me. Even though he was like a kid, he always seemed to be on a rare frequency with God. I had witnessed his astounding spirituality on numerous occasions, and I had become expectant about seeing God work mightily in his life. One would have to be blind to miss God's activity. Even though he ran from God time after time, his Close Encounters spawned miracles on a regular basis for which I marveled from a front row seat.

He was vague about the something  he felt was coming.  But I leaned in to listen to "Roma's wisdom," as a friend called it. Roma had wisdom? Who knew? Certainly not I. I was always trying to impart some wisdom into Roma that I hardly was quiet and listened to him. I always recognized that something special about Roma, but my focus was being finely tuned.

So was this "something" Roma "felt" was "coming" the same "thing" I had felt for  three years? (Read Prodigal, Everyone where I first shared about that premonition of looming suffering.) Our minds were in sync in bizarre and astounding and hair-raising ways sometimes, a fine thread of telepathy connecting us. And Roma with God. And occasionally me with God, though I am praying to have my thread with God strengthened.

On November 13, Roma texted me, "I think it's started. France just got bombed. And I believe it's not the end of the attacks." So whatever Roma thought was the "something big" coming, he thought it was the starting to happen.
That night he posted on Facebook, "Oh we should be scared for what's coming to this country and what God is capable of. Look out for the signs." He was beginning to sound like an Old Testament prophet.
There are many parts of my story I am reluctant to share. But I have resolved to share all of it as truthfully as I can.  So, speaking of Old Testament prophets, one evening as I was reading the Bible, not intending to open randomly and read which is not my habit, I opened at Ezekiel and felt drawn to a passage. Ezekiel 24. My eyes fell on verse 15. And a new dread filled my spirit. 

The word of the LORD came to me: "Son of man, behold, I am about to take the delight of your eyes away from you at a stroke; yet you shall not mourn or weep, no shall your tears run down. Sigh, but not aloud; make no mourning for the dead. Bind on your turban and put your shoes on your feet; do not cover your lips, nor eat the bread of men." So I spoke to the people in the morning, and at evening my wife died. And on the next morning I did as I was commanded.

The passage stirred something deep and primal in my gut. Again, I had to push it away. The verses had the power to send me into panic mode. But the verses were about Ezekiel's wife. Had my fear been directed in the wrong direction? Was God warning me about something or someone other than my son? 

Continue with Dreams