I remember fishing on a lake in Minnesota in the spring of 1980. I caught my first-ever large mouth bass that day. It never would’ve dawned on me as a 19-year old that one day I would have a son who would die not far from where I was fishing that afternoon.
Far From Home
“Why can’t you be happy for me, Dad?” Graham was clearly frustrated.
“I’m just sad, buddy,” I replied. I couldn’t bring myself to say the true reason. But Graham read my mind anyway.
“I’ll see you again,” he promised. “It’s not like I’m leaving for good. I just need a new start. If I don’t get out of Georgia I don’t think I’ll survive.”
I nodded, trying hard to understand. My next words had to be measured carefully so as not to drive him out our door for good. His mind was made up; he was dead set on leaving.
“I know you feel you need to do this, Graham. I’m just saying I believe in you enough to think we can beat your addiction here.”
He was having none of it. I could tell from his body language the topic was closed to further discussion. I felt helpless and could only pray for guidance. Don’t let me have blown it, God! After a few moments of silence I felt the urge to add:
“Just know your mom and I support you, buddy. We release you and will always love you.”
Graham softened. “Thanks, Dad. I love you guys too.”
We were headed home, driving down Sweetwater Road, as we passed Moseley Gardens on our right. In a matter of months Graham’s final stop on earth would be a plot of ground in the middle of that very cemetery.
Home Fires
Graham was a preacher’s kid. He didn’t ask to be. His dad was disabled. He didn’t choose that. He was adopted. He never had a vote. That’s a lot for any child to be exposed to. These didn’t cause his addictions but they were contributing factors.
My shelves are lined with filled-up journals, every one a testament to all the things that make me tick; all my dreams, prayers, desires, and failures. Every peak, plain, and pit.
Therein is the entire scope of my journey in faith, ciphered in my scrawl. I was leaving them all to Graham because I wanted him to know his dad, warts and all, and whether he would be proud of me or despise the ground I walked on would be his decision. There’s a ton in there about and for him. I like to think it would’ve moved him greatly to read the prayers of his dad for himself and realize just how loved he was.
My journals are bulging with cherished stories of our home, our closeness, our laughter, and traditions. I refer to them often, especially during those times when the enemy tries to convince me that we were bad parents. Satan is a liar, and we can be, too – about ourselves and about others.
A Hard Lesson
First let me say this: Graham was never embarrassed about my disability. He was proud of his daddy, and loved being with me. He would get a tad irritated when people just stared at me or asked me dumb questions. I told him not to be bothered by it, that I wasn’t, but the lad took the self-appointed business of being my wingman quite seriously.
Having said that, no one would’ve been happier for divine healing for my condition than our son. All his younger years he just wanted to see God do something big, giant, supernatural. If it was for his old dad, so much the better. So when our church fellowship had a special prayer gathering on a Sunday morning, calling for my healing, he was all up in that business.
As we were getting dressed for that morning’s assembly, Graham told me, “Dad, go ahead and load the driver’s chair in the van. You’re gonna need it after you get healed so you can drive yourself home.”
My heart pitied my son in the most tender way in that moment; I used it as an opportunity to teach him something about the ways of God.
“Did God tell you I would be healed today?” I asked.
“Well, not exactly,” he reasoned, “I just know it’s going to happen! How could it not? All those people praying for you!”
“Remember, son, there’s a difference between our wishing for something to happen and our believing it will happen because of faith,” I tried to explain.
“You’re going to walk today, dad.” He stated it so matter-of-factly, I could tell his heart was closed to the truth.
Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve loved to walk out of that church service that morning, but in that moment I was more concerned about the condition of my son’s heart than anything else. When I didn’t walk out of there — if I didn’t — what would happen to his slender hanging-on-by-a-thread faith in God?
Hope Lost
The congregation, adults and children, pressed around me in a tight circle. Gra was standing over my right shoulder and had his hand resting on it. I heard him muttering words but couldn’t make them out. Long, sometimes loud, prayers and petitions went up all over the room. I wish you could’ve heard the young people’s strong prayer asking God to raise me up. It tore my heart out.
Minutes went by and I wasn’t feeling anything. Not in my heart, not in my legs. And before you go saying anything like it was a lack of faith on my part, let me stop you right there. If anyone in that room believed God could do it, I’m your man.
More minutes. Moaning. Crying. Silent prayers, quiet prayers, loud prayers. Nothing. I found myself praying only for my son. The longer the prayers dragged on, the more I could feel my son’s heart deflating. I could even sense that it was hardening.
Finally and mercifully, one of the pastors called an end. He said something most appropriate about our not being disappointed in God, but trusting that his way is best; he’s still good. My son, for his part, did not offer an amen. He was wrecked.
We can just about put a pin at that point in time to mark the moment when Gra said enough.
“I’m done. God isn’t all-powerful. He doesn’t respond to our prayers. Why should I obey him?”
A Moment of Grace
A postscript on that prayer service, if you will. Long after that Sunday morning (I don’t remember if it was days or weeks later) Graham opened up to me about something that happened that morning. When he described what he saw, I had no reason to doubt that he was telling me the truth. He was still so mad at God, so there was no cause for him to make up something to make God look better.
He saw Jesus coming from the back of the room, navigating through the crowd of people. He said he was watching as Jesus, not really even touching anyone, but was moving effortlessly from the back to the front. When he got to the front, he went down on his knees and rested his hands on my paralyzed limbs.
I was dumbstruck. I asked him what happened next.
“He looked up at me. And then he got up and turned around and walked back out,” he said.
When I asked him what he looked like, Graham said he couldn’t see his face but that he just knew Jesus was looking at him. The kicker is, that story never encouraged Graham’s heart. It didn’t turn his heart back to Jesus. He was just telling me about something just as he might say what happened at school or football practice. Just a cool story to share, nothing more, nothing less.
Some time after this, Gra was about to be suspended from his Christian school for some offense. The headmaster called him — and us — into his office. He explained in his grandfatherly way he’d had a change of heart; Graham wasn’t going to be suspended after all. It wasn’t really fair to others who’d been suspended for similar, Mr. North explained, but felt as though, in Graham’s case, and for prayerful reasons, there was room for some grace.
Then he looked straight at Graham, and said, quite sternly:
“Just remember, son; grace refused is grace removed.”
I wish I could tell you the story turned out much differently, but our precious son did not pay heed to those words. And we found ourselves back on our knees yet again.
More on that, next.
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