A Different Picture
The phone call came unexpectedly. I was told to look for a package being sent. The next day, I received notice in the mail: it was waiting to be picked up. I had been told it contained the last known possessions of my son from the place which had sent it. Now I would have those things he had left behind. Twenty-three years had been reduced to what could be contained in a cardboard box. Nothing was left of the cars, the clothes, the furnishings. Material possessions were all gone, along with years and years of a life once so full of promise. As I stood in line at the Post Office and waited my turn, my mind traveled back over the previous year. I recalled the heartbreak of the news I had first received, the feelings of futility and helpless frustration. I remembered the horror of facing the end of a life long before its time. Chaos and confusion, countless phone calls, miles and miles of travel: all blurred into nightmarish panic. I wondered what articles the package contained. What moments of time were suspended in the memory of its contents? The box was large but surprisingly light in weight. It bore out what had happened for so long in my son's life: appearances were deceiving. He had managed to hide most of his actions, including his bondage to drugs, until the very last. All the way home, I recalled the years I had had with my son. Once a loving young boy, but like so many before him had, and so many after him would, he began experimenting with drugs. He, too, had declared that they weren't going to control him, "he could handle it". Oh no, they wouldn't dictate his lifestyle--not his! He was going to be the exception to the statistics. He, too, ignored the road signs and grave markers all along that same old highway. What started as sneaking out of the house to experience a 30-minute buzz with a neighborhood pal quickly became an everyday requirement. Waking thoughts were those of how to obtain more; going to sleep thoughts were lost in the oblivion of the drugs' effects on his mind and body. His actions WERE dictated by the control the addiction exerted over him! Forcing myself to be calm, I took the box into the house and put it down. My hands shook as I cut the seals and slowly opened it. There were indeed very few items. A mesh bag contained two thin pairs of pants and a shirt, two socks, a hairbrush, toothpaste and toothbrush. At the bottom of the bag were two tiny drawings his little sister had made for him, and a lined pad bearing the impressions of the last letter he had written on it. The high-top sneakers he had worn were in there, too. I know it is silly to smell of a person's shoes, but I did anyway. They still smelled like him, even after all this time. I wondered if this was the pair in which he had kept a razor blade to end his life if the authorities ever arrested him. He had no intention of changing his life, which had come to hold no meaning for him beyond the next "fix". Then I saw it. There, in a corner of the box, tucked inside a plastic cup: his photo ID. The picture was tiny: the person in it barely recognizable. I was shocked all over again by the harsh reality it showed: his face pale and gaunt, not a hint was left of the joy and happiness he had once shared with those who loved him dearly.
I gripped the small plastic card in my hand. My eyes began to fill with tears as I reached for an envelope containing a card received just the day before. "We were able to get these so I thought I would send it to let you know that I love you and I can't wait to see you all. Here are some pictures for Mother's Day. I hope they show you that I am doing all right. I will see you all next week-end." There in the picture stood the same young man as in the photo ID, but what a difference! Neatly dressed in his Sunday suit and tie, the haunted look was gone--replaced by the gentlest of smiles. Peace had replaced turmoil. Learning had replaced ignorance. Contentment had replaced longing and Christian companionship had replaced the awful gulf of loneliness. Tears of joy became a flood as my thankful heart replaced the items in the box. No longer was my son's life represented by a few meager items in a cardboard box! Now it is reversed: those meager items are tokens of an existence that used to be. A boy doomed to die had been given abundant life through Jesus Christ's forgiveness of his sins!
Two thousand years ago, a young man suffered and died an agonizing death, but not because of anything He had done wrong or bad decisions He had made. No, no: out of a love that passes all understanding He substituted Himself for my son, for me, for you--all of us--that we might find Hope Eternal through His name, the Name of Jesus. Because He died and rose again, because He went unto His Father in Heaven to make intercession for each and everyone of us, my son has life today. Condemned to die through the transgressions of sin, my son's life was redeemed when Jesus reached into his heart and changed his focus. Because of Jesus, I don't have to stand by a graveside and face the heartbreak of knowing I can never see my son again. Any separation there may be between this boy and his family now is only temporary! A different picture. Thank You, Jesus! The shadow of the Cross does indeed make a different picture! Glory! I lift Your Name, Jesus, for You are worthy of all praise and honor and glory!
"A Different Picture" Copyright © 1998 by Patricia Sikes. All Rights Reserved.
I Exalt Thee
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