One Big, Big Hug

Forty hours of hell. And that’s only what I felt. It was even worse for my son, I’m sure. After all, he was the one in jail, not me. But like the father in the Luke 15 story I was searching, desperately yearning for my son. My emotions were everywhere -- shock, anger , frustration, desperation, resolve, love and forgiveness, hope, and finally grace. The anger and frustration were primarily due to the criminal system. The shock, fear, and hope were directed toward my son.

My son was arrested. He worked at a 24 hour gas station. Not a good situation at all. One night, in the early hours of the morning, a couple under age guys came in and badgered the store clerk to sell them some beer. After an hour, or more, my son caved in and told them he would leave the back door open, so they could go in a get a case of beer. So the two guys did just that. Helped themselves.. They loaded their car full of beer, energy drinks, and pop. It wasn’t hard for the owner to figure out what had happened. There was a camera in the back warehouse, too. My son was fired. He didn’t tell us for a week, but we knew things weren’t right. By the time he finally spilled the beans he already had plans to run off and hide out in the forest. He had his Jeep packed with gear and groceries. One last stop at a friend’s house, on a Sunday afternoon, when suddenly the sheriff cars pulled up, surrounded him, and made their arrest.

He called me that night to tell me. I was frantic -- never been through this before, and didn’t have a clue what to do. But I told him I would stand by him and do all I could. I called a good lawyer the next morning who helped in so many ways. He was at the court house at noon to represent my son at the arraignment. By television he told my son at the jail that his father was seated in the court room with him. What a gesture. I was assured he would be released that evening, and a trial would be pending. I called the jail several times that afternoon to find out when he would be released so that I could pick him up. I kept getting the run around. When finally I went down to the jail to wait for him I found out they had released the prisoners earlier. I made such a scene of disgust and frustration that I was afraid the desk sergeant might come out and arrest me. I just could not understand why the criminal system had to treat every person like a hopeless, worthless criminal and destroy their dignity.

So we started driving all over town looking for him. We found a few other guys released that night, hanging out at the nearby mall. They remembered our son. They said he had boarded a bus. We never found him that night. He had got on a bus that went into Portland, got lost, and had to stay the night at a stranger’s apartment.

All this time I was sorting out my emotions -- disgust, fear for my son’s well being, and hope that such a dramatic event would bring him up short, get his attention, and change direction in several areas of his life. But most of all I realized how fearful of me he had been through the process, because of how I had been treating him for several years. I tried to make him keep the rules. I chased him down when he was in trouble and he would run away. He avoided me. I yelled and made a scene instead of talking reasonably, gracefully, and fatherly. I tried to make him be righteous the same way I tried to make myself righteous. Keep the rules!!

So finally, Tuesday morning he called his Mom, and she went to pick him up. Carol called me at the office and told me to come up to the house, that my son was home. I couldn’t get there fast enough, it seemed. When we saw each other across the room we just gazed, until the tears began. I walked over and took him in my arms and hugged him for the longest time. No words, no yelling, no lecture. Grace had done a marvelous work in him. But more importantly, it had done a marvelous work in me, too.

“He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 1:6)

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.” (Washington Irving)