I wept at the wheel on a busy boulevard in the county where I live. At first people were looking over at me as they passed in the next lane. I wiped at my face, and snorfled. Then I noticed that people were dropping back. Eventually, there were no cars in my immediate vicinity. I felt like O.J. in his Bronco on that famous ride. I started calling out to God, "Help me! Help me! I'm calling on you! I hate myself, I hate my son!" I wanted to die. But I have to believe that Jesus prefers honesty to anything else. I was saying, "Here's who I am," and that is where most improvement begins.
You've got to wonder what Jesus was like at 17. They don't even talk about it in the Bible, he was apparently so awful.
But then I said the stupidest thing: I said, "I'll do anything you say."
Now this always gets God's attention. I could feel him look over, sideways, and drum his fingertips against each other. "Hello!" I heard him say. "Go deal with this, dude."
So I drove home, wiping at my eyes, and when I stepped inside, Sam said, his voice dripping with contempt, "What do you have to cry about?"
I staggered to my room, like Snagglepuss onstage. I sat on the floor, and thought about his question. The answer is, I don't have a clue, but all the honest parents I know -- all three of them -- are in similar straits. Their kids are mouthy now, and worse; they could care less about school, and some are barely passing at this point. They drive like movie stars from the 50s, like Marlon Brando or James Dean. You can see in their driving that everything in them is raw. No wonder teenagers make such good terrorists.
And me. I think the moment Sam was born, it was all over. I recognized that the things I hated about my parents -- their fixation with homework, and getting into a good college; their need to show us off, and make us perform socially for their friends -- were going to be things Sam hated about me some day. I also knew that I would wreck his life in ways my parents couldn't have even imagined because I was single, broke and barely sober. I knew that God had given me an impossible task, and that I would fail. I knew deep down that life can be a wretched business, and no one, not even Sam, gets out alive.
It turns out that every kid has this one tiny inbred flaw: They have their own skin and their own will. Putting aside for a moment the divine truth of their natures, all of them are wrecked, just like the rest of us. That is the fly in the ointment, and this, Sam, is what I had to cry about.
When I finally stopped my sobbing, I called my friend Father Tom, who is actually one of Sam's dear friends, too. I told him my version. He listened.
"You're right on schedule," he said. "And so is he. And I was worse."
"You swear? Thank you! But it's still hopeless," I said. "What should I do?"
"Call the White House and volunteer him for the National Guard."
"Anything else?"
"Let the hard feelings pass. Ask for help. Mary and Joseph had some rough moments, too. See if you can forgive each other a little, just for today. We can't forgive: That's the work of the Spirit. We're too damaged. But we can be willing. And in the meantime, try not to break his fingers."
I sat on my floor and after a while the dog came over and gave me a treatment. Somewhat revived, I tried to figure out the next right thing.
After a while I went and kicked my son's door in.
"Go clean the cars properly," I said. "Now."
And he did, or rather, he hosed them down. Then he went back inside and slammed the door. I went inside and filled a tub with hot soapy water, and took it downstairs to Sam.
"Go wash it again," I said. "With soap, this time. And then rinse it."
I went inside and did everything I could think of that helps when all is hopeless. I ate some yogurt, drank a cool glass of water and cleaned out a drawer. I took my nice clean car to the market and bought supplies: the new People, a loaf of whole-wheat sourdough and a jar of raspberry jam. I lay on the couch, read my magazine and ate toast. Then when I started to doze, I turned on CNN softly and watched until I fell asleep. I woke up a few times.
The first time, I was still sad and angry and ashamed, and knew in my heart that things weren't going to be consistently good again for a long time. I was willing for the Spirit to help me forgive myself, and for Sam and I to forgive each other, but these things take time. God does not have a magic wand. Also, I kept my expectations low, which is one of the secrets of life.
Then when I woke up again, I saw the last thing on earth I expected to see: Sam in the same room as me, stretched on the other couch, eating yogurt, and watching CNN too.
"Hi," I said, but he didn't reply. His legs hung over the sides of the couch. Then I dozed off again. When I woke up, he was asleep, too, with the dog on the floor beside him. He was sweating. He has always gotten hot when he sleeps. He used to nap on this same couch with his head on my legs, and ask me to scratch his head, and before that to crawl into bed beside me, and then kick off all the covers, and earlier still, to sleep on my stomach and chest like a hot-water bottle. He and the dog were both snoring. Maybe I had been too, all of us tangled up in one another's dreams.
Everything in the room stirred, dust and light, dander and fluff, and the movement of air, my life still in daily circulation with this guy I have been resting with for so many years.
About the writer
Anne Lamott's latest book is "Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith." For more columns by Anne Lamott, visit her column archive.
Related Stories
Let's have a revolution! Does July 14 work for you?
Leave your cellphone, bring some fruit, and protest -- with kindness -- what has happened to our country.
03/29/06
Because I'm the mother
My son hates church, but I make him go anyway. It's good to do uncomfortable things -- it's weight training for life.
07/04/03
Story finder (3 ways to search Salon)
Salon Directory (browse by topic)