A Whole Boy
As I look at the woman sitting opposite me, the twisting of her hands, the set of her shoulders, and the stress on her face tells me she is willing to do anything I suggest.
Another desperate parent—I shudder at the memories. The responsibility of knowing that what I say could make or break her child is more than I care to bear. Yet, here I am searching my mind for an answer, silently begging God to please tell me what to say. Letters are so much easier. There is time to think, to pray, to finally give up and throw the letter away. But now she waits, and I see her pain. Her son is eight years old. The professional diagnosis was Attention Deficit Disorder. He is angry, often explosive, and sleeps very little. His violence is usually directed at his brothers and sisters, but occasionally at his parents as well. His eating habits are not good. On occasion he wildly explodes, using vile curse words. The list goes on and on.
I know she loves him. I can see it in the twisting of her hands. But I can also see she doesn’t like him. It is revealed in the frustration and bitterness of her voice. What one thing can I tell her? She asks about herbs to replace the drug he is taking. But neither drugs nor herbs are the answer.
I think about diet. I see the boy eating cheesy puffs and drinking coke. I know the yellow and red dye in the cheesy puffs has been found to contribute to his “problem.”
My thoughts of diet are interrupted by the mother speaking of her past—and her husband’s past. Yellow dye seems so unimportant now. They have surely given place to the devil. They carry the shadow of guilt. Their sins are past, but a sense of captivity remains.
I consider telling her of strongholds. But before I speak she turns the conversation to homeschooling and I see and hear the tension increase. “He refuses to sit still. He constantly bothers the other children. It is a nightmare trying to get him to do his work.” Again I start to answer, “He doesn’t need to sit still,” but I realize this isn’t the answer either.
Quickly and without even knowing, she turns the conversation again, this time to sickness, “He’s on antibiotics again this month,” she replies offhandedly. My ears perk up and I want to jump on my favorite bandwagon, but still I know there’s more. She begins to wind down when she starts talking about child training, our book, lack of early discipline, babysitters, public school, anger in the home, TV, etc.
She wants me to tell her some singular thing to do that will make it all right. Her child is a complex singular being, but the roots run out in all directions. He has a body that is reacting to antibiotics, red and yellow dyes, sugar, lack of self-discipline, and lack of sleep. He has emotions that are being bottled up in an unnatural school structure. He has a spirit that is being tortured by the devil who lurks about seeking whom he may devour. He has a mind that is being filled with the lust of Hollywood, the anger of his parents, the licentiousness of public school, the bitterness of his babysitter, and more. He is a whole boy whose body is being poisoned, his mind filled with ugliness, his soul is being destroyed, and his emotions are going wild. You can drug his body, numbing the vehicle of the soul, but someday he has to be free from those drugs, and when he is, the sickness of his soul will again be revealed.
