I get to be sad today.

Happy Birthday, Alex.

The tears stream down my face at o-dark thirty, while driving to the gym, flowing freely because it’s dark and it’s raining, and it’s Alex’s 39th birthday.

Photo by A n v e s h on Unsplash

There are so many words tossed around in the church that I dislike and some that I have a strong aversion to. Mainly because they conjure up confusion and cocked heads instead of spreading peace and understanding. We just assume “they” know what we are talking about. But I would argue, nope.

I won’t list them because, without a face-to-face discussion, they would only bring about more “what in the world?” stares. But I will share one. Just for today.

Prodigal.

Today is my oldest son’s birthday, and the last time we celebrated him was in 2007. Although, in 2008, I did drop off his favorite cake at his workplace to remind him I am still here. I am still Mom. I will always love and remember him.

The word “prodigal” gets attached to all the kids who have gone astray. Most of the stories I hear and read about are connected to “that thing that happened.” Or drugs. Or abuse.

Our story doesn’t fit nicely into a storyline that people lean in to hear or analyze. I get it. It’s so much easier to digest a painful situation when you can clearly label it.

The downside is that other labels creep into the picture, even if some are just plain wrong or lies. It’s the lies and guilt that grip and tear at my soul and dig into the past, surfacing ugly regret. So I’m not a fan of simple explanations for complex relational circumstances.

Yes, the prodigal son in Luke 15 is the best example for many situations. The point of this scripture is for us to realize we are all “sinful children,” and yet, our God wants us, loves us, and waits for us. But it can get lost as we navigate our pain.

This passage has long been the diving rod for all wayward sons and daughters and I have heard all the versions;

“See, Mary Ann, your prodigal will come home just like in Luke 15.”

Or, “He must be on drugs.” How do you even know?

Or “What was the last fight about?” Like there even was a fight!

It all stings while simultaneously has me rolling my eyes because there are parts that ring true like:

I also have 2 sons.
The father gave to each son, equally.
One of the sons left.

But that’s where my story has been on hold for the past 16 years. Alex, just gone. I don’t read anything in scripture about a fight or discussion between the father and the son. Although many sermons and commentaries talk about what the interaction between the father and the younger son might have looked like, my story doesn’t line up.

And that’s okay because I get the point. It’s what keeps me hopeful in the waiting.

But then there’s the well-meaning, “Have you reached out to him? My (insert any family relation) did for months, and it worked.” Um, there are no magic formulas here or set timelines. I wish. Only God decides and He is to fight this fight.

I am 100% convinced that this is a battle way beyond even my Mom-Superpower. God has made that abundantly clear. Not that I didn’t have a season of giving it a go.

I know that God’s character is trustworthy. He loves and sees Alex. He also loves and sees me.

I rest, most days, on this hope. As Mary Oliver writes,

“Faith, as I imagine it, is tensile, and cool, and has no need of words. Hope, I know, is a fighter and a screamer.”

In between my faith and hope, I get to be sad on days like today. Nothing about my tears negates my faith and hope. They are only the way for my heart to reconcile the meantime, the waiting.