The conflicts had been steady all day—all week for that matter. My husband was out of town and I was left to wrestle with the explosive emotions that often erupt in a house shared with two testosterone driven teen sons and a menopausal mother. I had already sent several under the breath prayers heavenward evoking divine wisdom. By midweek, mine was worn out and obviously not communicated successfully to my youngest son.

Totally spent at the end of one series of very trying set of confrontations, I climbed the stairs to where the momentary haven of my quiet room awaited me. Closing the door, I plopped into my favorite chair, my mind still reeling with the harsh words exchanged just moments earlier. My heart was feeling shredded, and I was just as certain it was the same with my son.

Somehow, this evening I knew there was a block we could not work through the same way we had always been able to. This time, there was nothing I could say that would help him comprehend his mother's love. To him, all it seemed to do lately was to collide negatively with his will. Tonight, that collision had left both our emotions shaken. His quizzical look at my last explanation was more than his usual teenage attempt to manipulate the conversation to go his way. He was honestly searching for an answer he was not hearing.

My first inclination was to volunteer what he needed, but inside, I heard a familiar voice saying, "You can't give him the answer he is asking for ... only I can." That echo in my spirit calmed my torn emotions that resulted not only from the conflict, but from the image of him as I passed his room on the way to mine.

Peeking through the slightly closed door, I saw him with the sacred shoebox ... the storehouse of all his treasured written keepsakes since the first grade. There were valentines, notes passed between class and letters I had written and tucked under his pillow or in his lunch box. He was holding one of mine in his hand when I asked, "What are you doing?" His reply tugged on every heartstring of motherhood accumulated in our fourteen and a half years together. "I'm looking for answers, Mom ... but I can't find any!"

The earlier, seemingly unconquerable frustrations melted in the presence of his immediate need. How I wanted to take him in my arms and reassure him as I had done hundreds of times before. Instead, I patted his hand and turned quickly to go to my room before I gave in to a comforting that was not mine to give him this moment. "Ask the Lord, Son. I promise He will give you an answer." I could hear the heavy sigh of frustration at what I said.

Exhausted, I got out of my favorite chair and fell numbly into bed. I drowned my tears into my pillow and put the trust of my son's unanswered questions and my brokenness over what had taken place into my Heavenly Father's care. A blanket of grace lovingly surrounded my heart. I knew my son would be alright. He was at a new marker in his life—the right of passage into his faith with God. It was time for him to know he had more than the borrowed faith of his mother.

Even before I entered his room the next morning to wake him for school, I knew he had found what he was looking for. We both had.

Copyright © by Sharon L. Patterson Share