Last December, after Christmas, after the funeral, I found my word, or perhaps it found me.
Free.
I found it as I read the story of the crippled woman in the gospel of Luke,
Jesus was teaching in one of the meeting places on the Sabbath. There was a woman present, so twisted and bent over with arthritis that she couldn’t even look up. She had been afflicted with this for eighteen years. When Jesus saw her, he called her over. “Woman, you’re free!” He laid hands on her and suddenly she was standing straight and tall, giving glory to God. Luke 13:10-13
My heart found a home in that woman's story. Eighteen years, crippled, unable to stand, unable to look up.
 |
| Nathan Sawaya's Grasp |
Just recently I was cleaning out some bookshelves, and I found an old prayer journal from 10 years ago. I picked it up and started skimming through the pages. I was struck by the desperation, the pain, the loneliness. And then I found it. The day when Ross confessed that he had been fantasizing about what it would be like to be hanging from a tree. I remember I had found the print out of instructions about how to make a hangman's noose in his dresser drawer.
I don't remember what I did or said after hearing those words. In hindsight, I probably didn't say or do enough. But I have to give my 10-year younger self a break. She was a mom of three, all under the age of 5, the youngest just weeks old. She hadn't slept for a very long time. She also was terrified of her husband's anger - she knew that any disclosure to others would be seen as a breach of confidence - an act of high treason - and she'd be the recipient of a lot of hateful words and anger if she crossed that line.
Free.
I have spent a large chunk of my life afraid. Of sparking anger. Making things worse. Of a future that just looked the same as today. Of a moment when all things would go horribly wrong. That, despite all of my prayers, there would never be healing.
Ross spent a very long time in a very dark place, and he lost all perspective sometime between the night of December 19 and the morning of December 21, 2015. I'm still so angry that his story ended as it did. It's just not right. It's so unjust. This was supposed to be a story of triumph, overcoming, prayers answered.
 |
| Nathan Sawaya's My Boy |
Ultimately, it is, I suppose. As Ross sits in heaven, with his healthy mind, no longer Satan's playground, no longer clouded by lies. He's hanging out with my Savior, and his Grandma June and my dad, all of whom I'm sure gave him a good smack when they saw him. But as I look around, at the faces of his children, his parents, his friends, me...I see the carnage that's been left behind.
Free.
As I think back on these last 12 months, I relate to the crippled woman, who was suddenly able to stand straight and tall. I hadn't realized how much space in my mind had been occupied with worry and fear over Ross. I'm free of that now. I'm not worried about what I'll find in my text messages from him. I'm not scared about the phone calls I would receive. I'm not fretting over whether he would show up when he said he would. I'm not required to choose my words with painful precision. His mood and his pain no longer govern my day, my decision making, my future.
My story of triumph, of overcoming, of prayers answered....it's still being written. I am free, to stand straight and tall, and give glory to God. In this last year, Christ has put his hands on my face, gently lifted my eyes, and cried with me, saying, "Woman, you are free."
And so free shall I be.
 |
| Nathan Sawaya's Gray |
