Filled with Hope

I could feel it the moment I walked into the room to pick him up at school.  Sitting on the floor, his back to me.  The hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head.  Draping his face, hiding the pain he is feeling.  I’m getting better at this now.  Detecting when there may be a crack in his veneer.

“Hey bud, how are you?  Why do you have your hood over your face?”

He won’t look at me.  Won’t respond to my greeting.  This is another sign he’s struggling.

Standing behind him, I ruffle his hair, “Time to go dude”.

Nothing.  No response.  He just keeps fiddling with the Legos in front of him.

“Noah! It’s your Mom.  Time to go!” says the friend next to him.

Again.  Nothing.

“Come on bud, we gotta get home and let the dog out.”

Finally, he rustles a bit, lifts his sulking body from the ground, grabs his jacket and backpack from the hook and starts shuffling towards the door.  I can tell tonight is not going to be one of his light-hearted, full of laughter and smiles, kind of nights.  At least not yet.  Maybe later.  I can only hope.  And pray.  And pray for hope.  I do that a lot.  I pray for Noah to be filled with it.

We make our way to the car, no words being shared.  I’d like to ask him about his day, but I know it would be ignored.  I’ve learned to get more comfortable in the silence with him.  I can tell he’s stuck in the deep, dark corners of his mind.  We drive home and I glance at him in the rear view mirror.  He’s looking out the window, his face painted in sadness.  My heart breaks.  Again.

We pull into the garage, as we’ve done a million times before.  Without thinking, I start rattling off directions, “…grab your backpack…let the dog out…don’t forget to feed him please”.  But before I get out of the car, I turn around and look at him in the back seat.

The single tear forming in the corner of his eye begins to fall down his sweet face.  I reach back and grab his hand.  This is what we do.  When sadness overtakes him, we stop and pause.  Nothing is more important in that moment than to ensure he knows I am here for him.  For him to know he’s not alone.

“I don’t want to live in a house anymore,” he cries, “I just want to be outside”.  I ask what he means.  But really I don’t have to.  Because I know what he’s trying to say.  He feels like he is suffocating.  The house feels too small and confined for his spirit.  But being outside, well that represents freedom and space.  Outside holds nature and animals and a life that doesn’t judge.

Holding his hand, I silently pray for hope.  Again.

The single tear has now turned into a steady stream running down each of his rosy cheeks.

“I don’t want to be here any more Mommy”.

“What do you mean Noah…where don’t you want to be?”

“Earth.”

“Where would you prefer to be Noah?”

“In my own world.”

“What is your world like?”

A big sob escapes him as he cries, “It’s beautiful and not full of sadness.”

I’m broken when he says this.  But I’ve heard it before.  This isn’t the first time he’s told me he no longer wants to be in this world.  But it doesn’t hurt any less.  I hold back tears. I’ve become really good at that too.

“Noah, can you talk to me about why you are so sad today?”

Looking down at the floor, he shakes his head from side to side.

“How come? Do you not want to talk about it? Are you embarrassed?”

“No. You won’t understand Mommy.”

“Why not?  Maybe you could try talking to me about it. I might understand…”

Pausing for a breath between his slow and soft cries he says, “Because…I don’t even understand.”

This happens often for him.  Episodes of paralyzing sadness.  For no apparent reason.  Depression took hold of his tender mind and body several years ago.  But his heart and spirit hold true.  Every day he fights.  He fights for happy moments, minutes…and days.

I wish it was as easy as me trading in every happy moment in my life – past, present and future – and giving them all to him if I could.  I wish I could spare him the hold that this darkness has over him.  But I cannot.

So I pray.  Again.  And I pray for hope.