© Barbara V. Evers, All rights reserved.
When I started this blog, I wrote about my journey to faith and the issues I dealt with along the way. The posts, although difficult to write at times, focused on a part of my life long past. I’d had time to reflect on and grow from the hardships and crises I’d endured. I knew the outcomes. I’d seen the victories that followed. I’d spoken to groups about them numerous times.
In the last two years, my posts moved into current territory: the problems our daughter faces with addiction and the life of raising our grandchildren. These posts are harder to write. I write them soon after they occur with days, not decades, to reflect on what’s happening. I don’t know the outcomes. I’m unaware of the victories that will follow. I’m blind.
It’s much harder to write and share these posts. Many of you appreciate and respond to them, so I know I’m reaching an audience in need of my story, so I continue. I cling to verses that tell me all this will be worth it some day.
Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him. James 1:12
But it’s hard.
I’ve been silent about our lives over the last two months as I try to determine what to share and what not to share. I still don’t know what I’ll leave out, but I can’t tell you everything. Sometimes we need privacy.
But here goes . . .
In February, Victoria’s father died (Facing Our Worries in Grand-parenting). That week ripped a hole in our lives, and we still don’t understand the ramifications of this event for Victoria. She’s managed well but doesn’t talk about it much. Thank goodness for counselors and friends who care about her.
The day after Victoria’s father passed away, Amari had an appointment with a developmental behavior doctor. It took five months to get on his schedule. We needed to make this appointment, and, thankfully, Victoria wanted to go to school. She would have been a major distraction during the two hour session, but I felt guilty about sending her to school less than twenty-four hours after her father died.
From this appointment, we learned that Amari has OCD/Anxiety and ADHD. This wasn’t what we were expecting. We knew something affected his ability to focus in school, but the teacher, the speech teacher, and his counselor thought it might be an auditory processing problem. Nope. Since then, we have gone through a variety of prescriptions trying to find the combination that will help him. Since anxiety meds tend to increase distraction and ADHD meds tend to increase anxiety, it’s a tough balancing act. We’re still not sure what he needs, but we’re trying and seeing some improvements at school. Unfortunately, the first ADHD medicine the doctor tried would have helped him keep that focus into the evenings. It did not go over well. So we moved on to meds that help during the school day but wear off by the afternoon. Boosters have not proven helpful at this point. Conclusion? We’re still struggling with a very distracted, unfocused little boy in the evenings when everyone is already exhausted.
Enough to tire anyone out.
A few weeks later, I accepted a call from my daughter, and found out by accident, that she was testifying the next day in the trial for Amari’s father. She was going to testify against him. I offered to come and support her, but she said no. It became obvious she didn’t want me to hear what she had to say. Then she argued with me about something small (a diversionary tactic?), and I decided to honor her wishes. The next morning, a social worker called me. My daughter wanted me there.
Gut-wrenching. I’ve read and even used this term before, but as I drove to the courthouse I finally understood it. My nerves on edge, I entered the courthouse, went through security, and found the courtroom. Amari’s father saw me the moment I entered. I didn’t acknowledge him, but his attorney kept turning around and looking at me. During a break, I met the social worker who told me Tisha’s testimony was next. By some miracle, she never testified because he changed his plea to guilty when court reconvened. The judge gave him a twelve-year sentence. Every time she headed down the wrong path in her life, she blamed him for dragging her there. Maybe this time, she’ll get it right.
As I left the courtroom, I spoke to the victim of this crime, a man whose life will never be the same. He will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair unable to do the simplest things for himself or his family. I hesitated to speak to him, but my heart hurt for the pain he’d endured and the changes brought to his life. I explained who I was, and he was glad to speak to me. He could have seen me as the woman raising his attacker’s child, but he chose to see me as the woman raising one of his witness’s children, instead. In fact, he insisted on praying for me and my grandchildren right then, in the hallway.
I drove home desperate for someone to talk to. My best friend was out of town, so I didn’t want to bother her. My other best friend (yes, I have two) was working long hours, so I couldn’t call her. Bruce was at work. I called my older sister. It didn’t change the day, it didn’t ease my pain, but it helped to talk about it. She’s a very empathetic listener, and I’m blessed to have a sister like her.
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Eccl 4:9-10a
I ask that you bear with me as I journey through all that’s happened. There’s more but not today.