there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground

So many people ask: "Aren't you mad? Furious? Where's the anger? If I were you, I'd rage. Not give him the time of day. Say 'You're out.' Done. I've got nuthin' for you here."

I respond: Stop Asking Me where's the anger. I don't know. I. Don't. Know. I can't find it. I know I should have it, unleash it, change the weather. But it's not here. Maybe it's buried under the rubble. Waiting to pounce after I've lifted myself from the ground. The gratitude that he's alive keeps me on my knees. In prayer. In awe. In supplication to the Power that has saved him from himself. This time.

He did what addicts do. He relapsed, it only took a thought, an impulse, a second, and then he dove back in. And swam deeper and deeper into the dark ocean. He reached a point of no return; couldn't find his way back to shore.

He said he could manage. He'd be sober enough.

Sober enough wasn't.

Instead of feeling rage, my heart bleeds for him. I want to envelop him in my warmth and love and help him heal.

But, alas I cannot. I must keep my distance. I must give him the dignity of figuring out how far he's gone. My arms feel straightjacketed- they want to hug and hold him and bring him home. But I'm told that doesn't help anything. In fact, with me holding him, he can't find his way. He has to find his own North Star. It can't be me.

Today, he's alive. Today, he is not one of the kids who died.

God or Universe or Angels intervened and stopped him, and caught him, before it was over. He's freshly sober. So tender and new.

Anger? Not yet.

I'm still on my knees kissing the ground.