Sam

I don’t often write of Sam anymore although he was the subject of most of my journal entries years ago. I wrote a collection of letters to him while I carried him inside of me and continued to chronicle his first steps ( Dec. 10, 1987) to the description of how he refused to leave his school supplies at school on the first day of kindergarten. I also wrote of more painful, stressful times as he grew from a strong-willed boy into an even stronger-willed young man. These days, though, the words don’t come.


Just as any mother worth her salt would say I love each of my three children equally, but I would also add, as most mothers won’t, that I love them so differently that’s it’s as if my love comes from three different people, as if they each had their own mother who all happen to be me.

Sam was my first. He introduced me to an entirely different kind of love. . . the kind where you would die, where you would kill, where you seem to wear your heart and feelings on the outside of your body where they are no longer protected by skin and bones.

I suppose being the “center” of a mother’s world is one of the perks as well as one of the perils of being the first child and, I often wonder, if Sam’s birth order has played a part in who he has become, if my borderline obsessive love for him did it, or if he is just Sam, or even more so, does it even matter.

I feel like I’ve been apologizing to Sam since he was just a baby or at least since the twins were born. In my warped young mind, I had it in my head that Sam’s vote in the family carried as much weight as my own, and there have been times when I’ve simply handed him my vote in order to avoid a conflict or a hurt feeling. I’ve recently decided not to do that anymore.

While divorcing his dad and later entering into treatment for anorexia, the fear of losing Sam was my biggest worry. It was bigger than starting a life on my own after 25 years. It was bigger than the possibility of losing that life to mental illness.

In the years since then, I’ve managed to put a band-aid on our relationship, but I still deny him access to my real self. The real me who would not make room for his ego, the me that would demand to be spoken to with honesty and respect. This has not only hurt me, but has hurt Sam’s own growth and self-discovery.

When I take my “mom” glasses off, I see Sam as a talented, articulate young man who drinks too much, who is unable to manage a romantic, healthy relationship with a woman. I see a man who spends more time on lies than sharing the genuineness that floods his heart. I see a man who is a great thinker and debater and shelters a tender heart. I see a man whose mother has tried to clear the path before him, leaving him with a sense that he can’t make his own way. . . so he attempts to fill the void with a false bravado that takes the form of alcohol or women or bullshit.

I know though, even if he doesn’t at this point in his life, that he is not only a member of a family that loves and cares for him, but the creation of a living and loving God. I’m beginning to finally understand that the same Spirit who found me on early morning walks five years ago, will also find Sam. That same sweet Spirit will whisper in his ear telling him he is more than what he has become. It will find him in the dark, take hold of his hand and bring him to the Light of his own goodness and worth.

I need to quit looking at Sam within the limits of being my son, and I need to see the unlimited possibilities within him as a child of God.

I love that boy and the human part of me wants to hold on to him and rescue him and make excuses for him and nag him for the rest of my life. That’s my job as his mother. But the truth is I love that boy so much that it’s time to give him back to God. . . just like the biblical Sam’s mother did. It’s time for him to feel the arms of the Spirit wrapped around him and that can’t happen until I release my own arms.