My son began his senior year, yesterday.

And his freshman year.

Because, you know—nothing can be normal around here.

The realities of living in a family with chronic illness means hard choices must be made. Buddy knows this all too well.

But he also knows hard choices can lead to good things.

So my son begins his senior year, not at the Christian school where he’s grown up, but online with the local college—collecting credits that will set him up nicely to be able to (PLEASE SWEET JESUS) finish the double major he’s planning within four years rather than five.

This is a good thing.

In a good-hard kind of way.

People have asked my husband,

“is he doing this because of Lorie’s health?”

And the answer is no.

And yes.

My son made this decision on his own after a month or more of frank conversations about a number of factors. His decision was his decision. And he had his reasons.

Which leaves ME feeling torn.

Torn because I’m so proud of him and the wisdom and discernment he’s displayed. So proud of his clear-headedness. So proud of his ability to weigh all the factors and make a difficult decision and be at peace with the losses that come with it, either way.

He’s an amazing young man.

But.

I still feel like it’s my “fault.”

And my husband having to field such questions doesn’t help.

Because, to be quite honest—it causes emotions to collide in me like a warm front hitting a cold front and threaten to cycle out of control.

I am ANGRY.

What if the answer to that question was only YES?

What if he did make that decision solely because of MY health?

WHAT WOULD BE WRONG WITH THAT?

And what kind of people value my life so little that they would even ASK such a question?

And I am SO, SO SAD.

Because what IF the answer to that question is only yes?

What if he DID make that decision solely because of my health?

What if I am part of the reason, yet again, for his loss?

These are the thoughts that twist and turn and threaten to entwine—the results the difference between destruction or just a good, hard rain.

My son had to write a poem a few years ago for his English class.

It had to be modeled off of a famous poem titled, “Where I’m From.”

After some initial conversation to collect his thoughts, he became very guarded about writing this poem.

I didn’t see it again until he was finished.

Until he brought it to me to read.

Until I sobbed in my bed,

marked by the beauty and the

agony of his words.

He gave me permission to share a portion of it—

it goes like this:

I am from silence 

From a family that watched a childhood wither and die 

A sibling that lost touch with the outside world 

I am from late night tears and unending prayers 

Prayers for healing, joy and energy 

Most of all for energy 

I quietly denied mine and sank into the shadows 

Hoping, praying that I could somehow reignite her vitality

By suppressing mine 

I am from a family that simply is “out of spoons” 

I am from an unending chorus of “ugh, fines” and “just this onces” 

“Only because I love yous” and “how can I help yous” 

I am from years of wear and tear on lives and relationships  

Wrought by words like “Fibromyalgia” and “Myalgic Encephalomyelitis” 

Nevertheless, my family still stands united— 

One in our pain, one in our laughter 

Chronic illness has left an indelible mark on BOTH of my children—

one WITH it,

one affected BY it.

And I HATE this.

And yet,

I watch my son…

This young man who just wrote in his college application essay that his highest goal was to foster communities where everyone and their opinions were welcomed, and all became better for having been there.

This young man who received last year’s alumni award and scholarship for his leadership.

This young man who was chosen as a house leader to create community among his peers.

This young man who helps to lead and build community within the high school Bible study that meets at our house.

I observe this young man who had the maturity a few days ago to say to me, “Mom, I understand _____, but I felt you kinda bit my head of about it.”

This young man who I trust implicitly to be where he says he’s going to be.

This young man who thinks deeply about his friendships.

This young man who builds worlds within his mind and transforms them into games.

This young man who writes things like,

I am from a strong foundation:  

assiduously built by a counselor and a communicator, 

founded on faith

I am from dinner table debates and hard questions 

I am from punny humor and poetic posts 

I am from family traditions and road trips 

I am from healing cuddles and kisses 

I am from love 

And I remember.

God is bigger than this.

And my son is better than this.

Coronavirus.

Chronic illness.

Card games.

Christian school.

All have conspired to build a young man of great character.

A young man of whom I am immensely proud.

A young man I love deeply.

And a young man I will miss desperately

when he leaves “where he’s from”

for where he’s going.

acceptance chronic chronic illness college future good hard grief high school hope loss parenthood parenting raising boys school surrender transistions