Monday, March 7, 2011
Where the Wild Things were
There was once a little boy who loved 'talking time' with his sisters just before bed. Who could always find something interesting to do. Who had questions about the world, and who loved God, and who hated to be separated from his mom for any reason.Who loved read-alouds, and whose favorite book was Where the Wild Things Are.
At age five this little boy began a downward spiral into severe anxiety and depression. And when he was hospitalized at age seven, after trying to throw himself through a plate-glass store window, we brought his Wild Thing to the ward where we were permitted to see him only one hour a day. The older kids made fun of him because he still slept with a toy. A nurse took it away as punishment for some minor infraction. (When we found out we were angry and made her give it back.) He loved Wild Thing, anyway.
Last night as Andrew and I talked about Big Guy's difficult visit this weekend, Andrew looked over and saw Wild Thing in our room. I don't know why it was there. "I look at that and I can barely remember the little boy who held it," he said.There was a silence.
I picked up Wild Thing and looked at him. Inside me there roared a terrible roar. My heart sailed back over years and in and out of weeks and through the days, trying to remember the good things I need to hold close. Those memories are what allow supper to still be waiting for my boy, should he return.
And I held Wild Thing to my chest. I wept with him in my arms, because Big Guy was not here to hold.
Please pray for us.