Gone: The ‘Graham’ Posts

Graham s t r u g g l e d, this much is true. The big story of his life is not that he was a drug user and died of a heroin overdose. The truth is, Graham, though enamored with the lure of the far country, never let himself go too far afield from the mercy of Christ.

And the sheepdogs of God’s hesed didn’t leave him alone either.

He was in and out of drug rehabs, in and out of jail, but those don’t tell the whole story. He was so doggone lovable, fun-loving, and compassionate. He did the best Matt Foley in a “van down by the river” routine you ever saw. Graham always befriended the outcasts and underdogs. He was a good friend to many.

There were demons. He fought them off, they came back. He couldn’t shake free of them; he felt trapped. The boy was mad at God; he didn’t hate him. In retrospect, our son was mostly angry at himself. My theory stands that some of the courser tattoos he wore on his body were a shadowy reflection of how he felt about himself on the inside. Though we had many heart to hearts during this time he was never quite able to tell us what it was that made him so angry.

We went through years of counseling, disciplining, his running away, rehabilitation programs, getting calls from jail, worrying we’d get “the call” in the middle of the night, pleading with him not to destroy himself; a vicious cycle of shame, defeat, and regret. He tried, oh how he tried! Things were never worse than when we had to turn him out. He’d ask for money, we couldn’t. For his own good, we’d tell ourselves. He phoned us to ask if he could crash a few days; his friends had grown tired of him and kicked him out. For a time we’d oblige but he always brought the demons with him and we couldn’t take it anymore.

It was killing us and taking a toll on our emotional and spiritual well-being. Every day was a battle. Every day was a cryfest. Things would get so bad we’d have to send him off to “anywhere but here.” Can you imagine watching your only child slumping down the driveway with a backpack thrown over his shoulder, not knowing where he was going but only knowing you’d done everything you could to save him?

Heavenly Intervention

One blessed day Sandy and I very clearly heard from our Abba Father. The comfort we received from him was too deep for words here. The gist of the message was,

You’re tired. You’ve done all you can do. I know you love Graham, but let me be his Father now. Take your hands off, and allow me to take over. Do you trust me to parent him your place?

From that moment on, we never fretted nor wrung our hands in exasperation again. it’s like the cool breeze of heaven blew through the front door of our house, going from room to room, and recycling through and through, driving out the despair and gloom and replacing it with his Presence. The putrid atmosphere that had been so prevalent in our home was gone.

A New Plan

About six months before Graham left us for Minnesota, he was still hanging out in Atlanta, staying with friends. One morning as I was reading the Bible, I sensed the Lord impressing strongly on my heart to lift the sanctions against our son. “From this moment on,” I heard in my spirit, “you and Sandy are to respond to all of Graham’s needs. Whenever he calls for a place to stay, open your home. If he asks for money, give it to him, no questions, no strings.”

I’ll admit it sounded strange. I thought you were taking over as his Parent, I prayed. Aren’t we going to just reopen old wounds? Nevertheless, in spite of my uneasiness, I said yes.

Perhaps that same day or shortly thereafter, Graham tried my cell. I answered, remembering the Lord’s direction, and greeted him warmly. He was surprised, and even more surprised as he managed to eke out a request to front him some cash, and I said sure, totally fine, where can we meet up?

He asked maybe one other time for some money, and, again, we were happy to meet his request. We never asked what it was for — it was never very much — and he must’ve wondered who these people were and where are my parents!

Gra asked to stay with us the last couple of days before he left for Minnesota. He wanted us to take him to the airport and we happily agreed. Sandy made up the couch and we blessed him however we could. Mother and son took a day for shopping; he needed a new set of clothes for the colder north. God blessed us in those far-too-quick hours, to enjoy our boy’s company for one last time.

Gone

Early one Monday in December, we got “the call.”

Actually it was a message on Facebook from Jill; she asked me to call as soon as possible. Something happened to Graham. She didn’t have much information, but we needed to pray, pray, pray. Sandy was finishing her late night shift at UPS and I was alone when the message came through. I found Jill‘s number and called right away.

From the call, and subsequent messages, we learned that Graham was found with a needle in his arm, apparently of a drug overdose, and was not responsive at the scene. He was being taken to the University of Minnesota hospital in Minneapolis. Before we ended that initial conversation, I asked Jill to pass along any information she collected in real time, and I would do the same.

Immediately I called Sandy’s supervisor at work and asked him to get an urgent message to her. The message was our boy was in trouble and she needed to get home. It seemed an interminable amount of time went by before she called from her car. She explained she had only just then received the message. It seemed to bounce along several channels before it got to her, taking unnecessary time.

By the time she got home I had more information to share as it got to me in bits and pieces from Jill. Now we learned Graham was on some kind of “blood warming“ machine and the next 24 to 48 hours were critical. Meanwhile we were getting messages from the hospital to wait to hear from the attending cardiac ICU doctor. She should be calling within the next few hours.

My wife quickly showered then began calling around to airlines about getting a flight out of Atlanta as soon as possible. She was able to secure a flight early that evening and we were rushing around getting her packed and ready to go. All while waiting for the doctor to call.

Sandy, armed with a go-bag, jumped in the van and I got in the driver’s seat. She had not had anything to eat all day and I figured she might get sick before she got on the flight or in the air, so we stopped at a fast food place near the airport. The drive-thru line was wrapped around the building, so she jumped out and hurriedly went inside to order. She suddenly had no appetite and just ordered a drink, and then a quick trip to the ladies room.

While I was waiting for Sandy, the phone rang. It was Dr. Venugopal. I answer.

“Mr. Mitchell?”

“Yes?” I responded shakily.

“Mr. Mitchell, I’m the doctor in the cardiac ICU here at the hospital. You can call me Dr. V because my name is pretty long…”

I tell her okay.

“Mr. Mitchell, what do you know at this point?” she asked kindly, and I told her the little we knew.

“Mr. Mitchell, I understand your situation is that you’re in Georgia?”

“That’s right.” To that, Dr. V drew a ragged breath, then continued: “Mr. Mitchell…”

I’m ready, pen in hand. I pulled my moleskin notebook out of my jacket pocket. Can’t miss any of the details. It’s imperative I write everything down. All we knew from earlier hospital conversations was that Graham might be critical but he was still alive. Here was the person in the know. And she was getting ready to fill in the blanks for us.

“…If only there was some other way to do this…” she let out a huge sigh . “Mr. Mitchell, I’m so sorry, but your son is…gone.”

My hand, holding the pen, was shaking. This was so sudden, so unexpected. I vaguely heard Dr. V saying other words and, while she was talking, I put down my small notebook. I reached for a receipt from the cup holder, turned it over to its blank side and wrote a single word:

Songs & Psalms

Earlier, when Sandy finally got my urgent message, before calling me to tell me she was leaving work, she started the engine and the CD in her car player came to life. It played the first chords of a contemporized version of Amazing Grace, as if cued for the moment, with the added refrain of “…my chains are gone…”

Best we can figure, I was sitting at the dining room table the same time that was happening with Sandy. I had all kinds of thoughts and doubts and questions bouncing around in my head: Lord, I need some assurance here. I need to know my son will be okay… I’m not sure he’s ready to meet you just yet…what if he doesn’t pull through? I had to ask it: Is he going to be with you…?

Little did I know he was already there.

Once upon a time I’d been given a word for Graham: “as long as you’re looking for a way out instead of the way home, you’ll always remain a prodigal.”

The Father met my questions with a thought that passed through my head:

“Read.”

I opened my Bible to the place I had bookmarked for quiet time (as I hadn’t gotten around to it yet). Sandy, fittingly for her, got reassurance through a gospel song, I got mine through a scripture:

I couldn’t stop. The Father was opening up his heart to me and every verse was was telling the same gospel story: he once was lost, now he’s found. He once was chained, but now they’re gone. And when I got *here*, I was on hallelujah ground and raising my hands to the heavens:

Wherever Graham was, either on some table in Minnesota with tubes and wires all over his body, or already gone, we knew this: God told us through psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, “the boy is mine; the devil can’t have him; his battles are over.”

Amazing Grace, praise God, his chains are…GONE.