My mama sent two boys to Vietnam. I 've always had a hard time imagining how terrifying that must have been. One brother was in the Army. He had a one year tour. He came home skinny but okay. The other brother was a Marine. He was shot by sniper fire in the knee because he was carrying the radio. He came home within a couple of months of leaving but the scars extended beyond his leg wound.
I have always heard one story in particular that is fascinating to me. I was only four at the time and because I don't have a memory of it, I rely on the memories of others. My mother saw an official car drive down the driveway. She mistakenly thought that if an official came to your door, there was a death. She must have gone into a blind panic because as these men got out of the car, she took off her shoes and started throwing them at them and yelled at them to get off of her property.
Last week the third young man that I knew, in six months, was buried due to overdose. This young man went to the same high school with the Son. He was at the same rehab with the Son when he went the first time. He also attended the second program that the Son attended and they spoke by phone to each other often. All of those facts caused me to feel that "take off my shoes and throw them" type of reaction.
I guess things never change. Maybe the impetus of worry is different. But worry and suffering remain. It is out of my control. Those first three of the twelve steps are really the hardest to swallow. They have layers and layers for me to understand.
The Son struggles. And, I struggle to accept. But, today I do. I guess that is all that I can ask for. I am praying for an increase in faith, for your Henry and mine.