My day was almost done.  My brain was fried from looking over contracts and ledgers all day and I was pretty much in the home stretch, so I was doing a little net surfing for the last few minutes as I waited on 5:00 to arrive.

The phone rings.  My son is on the other line, sobbing and nearly incoherent.  He tells me he’s been beat  up by two other boys and he wants to move in with my parents.

Two things hit me at once.  Fear and rage.

Fear that he’s seriously hurt, rage that I can’t get to my child immediately. 

I tell him to please calm down and tell me if he’s hurt.  He lets me know he is ok but that he still wants to move.  I hear his throat working, he’s trying hard to get himself under control.  He is a man-boy.  Fifteen years old and these tears in front of his mother are shredding what few ounces of dignity he has left.

Fear and rage strike again.

Fear that this cowardly attack will somehow permanently damage the precious soul within.  Rage that someone laid a hand in violence on my child. Fear that I won’t be able to control the fire-breathing monster that is now threatening to consume me.  Rage that I would even care about trying to control it.

A still small voice breaks through the gathering maelstrom…

If you are ok…he will be ok,” He lovingly, achingly whispers.

Calm. Desperate, I fight for it.  I realize, this, this spirit arena…this is where the true battle for my son resides.

Clear and calm and resolute, I comfort my son through the phone lines.  I assure him that we will work through this together and that together, we will be ok.

Clear and calm and resolute I hear the still small voice say, “Yes…yes…yes.”