Dallas Finally Meets His Dad

Dallas and I flew to Memphis with only three carved-in-stone plans; a. Bingo night with Grandpa (he ended up being too sick to play); b. Spend 2 ½ days in Missouri with Jodee and her family; and c. Celebrate Fat Tuesday on Beale Street with Uncle Tim.

Dallas made it clear all along that he really didn’t have any desire to see his birth father. He was pretty sure that if he did see Terry he’d want to tell him off. After Wayne passed, Dallas was especially grateful for the planned outing to Missouri, as he knew a funeral wasn’t the place for a father/son confrontation.

I gently encouraged my son to not let the opportunity to meet Terry go by. I didn’t want him to have any regrets. I wrote about the “daddy place” a couple of posts back, and I knew my child wanted to have some questions answered—needed some closure.

Monday afternoon we got ready to leave Jodee’s home and head back to Wayne’s house in Mississippi. Carm prepared a fabulous lunch for us. The pasta and shrimp was crazy good. As we were sitting at the bar in the kitchen, Dallas got a text message. “I’d like to take you and your mom out to dinner before you leave town.”

Dallas was still not sure he wanted to see Terry at all. “We’re having with lunch with Carm and Jodee right now. I’ll be back at Grandpa’s tonight.” Dallas told Terry he’d contact him when we got back to Mississippi. It was 20 minutes before the confirmation text came, “K”.

During the five-hour drive back “home” I again nudged Dallas toward seeing his dad. He agreed with me about not wanting to have any regrets, so he sent Terry a text message telling him he had homework in the morning, but would be free at 2 or 3. Terry said that sounded great.

The schoolwork took a bit longer than Dallas had anticipated, but Dallas kept in touch with Terry. At 3:30 my son sent a text message; “I’m all done and we’re heading into Memphis.” He told him we were free till 6:00. Terry responded, “Have fun.” Dallas laughed. “Well, I guess we’re NOT meeting him after all.” Are you kidding me? Terry was going to blow Dallas off? Unbelievable.

Dallas and I wanted to eat at the original Neely’s location. We love watching The Food Network and we didn’t want to be in Memphis and not have some authentic BBQ. Neely’s did not disappoint—it was delicious. We walked in the rain, took pictures down by the river, and just kicked around.

A few minutes after 6:00 we headed to Uncle Tim’s house, where we met his wife and little daughter, Mattie for the first time. Mattie is just three years old and she’s the youngest of Dallas’s cousins on that side of the family.

While visiting with Tim and his family Dallas was texting wildly. I felt like the mommy of a 10 year old. I wanted to say, “put that phone down right now.” My son looked at me and rolled his eyes.

At around 7:30, Tim, Dallas and I walked out to my rental car. “Apparently”, Dallas said, “We’re meeting Terry on Beale Street at 9:00.” The wild texting was going on between Dallas, Terry, and Terry’s mom – who lives in Michigan! She was mad at Dallas for not making time for his dad, and Terry was saying we were only going to give him an hour (or something like that). Hmmmm…3:30-6:00 is 2 ½ hours! Whatever. Drama!

Dallas knows that his uncle doesn’t get along real well with Terry, so he gave Tim the option of staying home. No, we’d planned to spend Mardi gras together, and he’d been looking forward to it – as did Dallas and I.

Down on Beale Street there was no one around! Fat Tuesday on Beale Street in Memphis, and there’s not a soul in sight. Crazy! We had The Hard Rock Café to ourselves, so we chatted with the waiter, drank a beer, ate onion rings, and settled the bill. We walked up the street to meet Terry.

Dallas was not even crawling when his dad left, and now Terry was shaking his grown son’s hand. He hugged me. He was accompanied by his fiancé, who is lovely and kind. Dallas talked about his music, his plans for the future, and the classes he was taking. Terry chitchatted about this and that.

When I met Jodee I told her she had Terry’s teeth, and now, as I sat across the table from my ex-husband and listened to him talk, I thought, “yep, Jodee certainly DOES have his teeth.” And, by the way, she has her grandma’s eyes. Dallas shares many of the same mannerisms as his dad, his uncle, and his grandfather. After an hour or so, my son looked at me and said, “I’m ready to go.”

No pictures were taken that night—Dallas wasn’t comfortable with that idea. He said he didn't want to hurt his dad (Tom). Terry’s girlfriend graciously understood. Terry hugged Dallas goodbye, kissed me on the cheek, thanked me for bringing Dallas to visit, and we were gone.

Within a few minutes, the drama began. Terry made phone calls and accused me of “ambushing” him. Dallas wasn’t to be blamed because I had “brainwashed him”. The claim was made that Terry’s mom and my own mother both agreed that I “kept Dallas hidden from Terry”. Oh, My Gosh! And I thought things had gone so well too. Sheesh.

Both mother’s denied ever saying such a thing – or even thinking anything like that. I was so angry. None of them walked the streets with me when I searched for my meth-addicted son. None of them cried their eyes out during the days and weeks when we didn’t know if Dallas was even alive out there. None of them went to County jail every weekend to visit my son, nor did they drive 100 miles to the State Prison to see him. If it weren’t for Tom and I (and God’s grace) Dallas wouldn’t be here—healthy and whole.

I’m sorry there are people who believe Terry’s lies. But you know, I think my son finally found closure. I think the questions have finally been answered.

Uncle Tim, Mattie Grace, Dallas

But I Would Have Missed The Miracle

A week or two ago we went through our storage unit looking for treasures we could use in a newly remodeled bedroom here at home, as well as long forgotten stuff we could release to the trash bin. I am so anxious to thin out my life, and bit-by-bit that is happening. It’s a good feeling. Tucked in the back corner of the unit was a large bag filled with work that had been done by my now 25-year-old son when he was in the first grade. I smiled as I read the simple sentences and enjoyed the short stories that screamed innocence and creativity. Each carefully completed assignment had a happy face sticker, a star sticker, or perhaps the word “excellent” stamped in the middle of the page. Dallas received awards and accolades. He was a child brimming with hope and the promise of a bright future. The mommy I was to that bright little boy could never have imagined one day sitting in a prison lobby, waiting for my name to be called so I could spend 30 minutes visiting my incarcerated son.

Dallas did not take the road I had expected him to take, and certainly not the path I would have chosen for him. I would have chosen the safe streets, the careful course, or the respectable route. But really, what was my dream from the beginning for each of my children? It was that they would grow to be kind, honest, happy adults who know who they are and how very much we love them. I dreamed of them being game changers whose talents made a difference in the world. World shakers don’t often take the traditional road, so I see now that the safe way would not have afforded my son the tools that have helped to shape the man he is today.

What would I do differently if I had it to do all over again? Would I have punished Dallas more, spanked him harder, put him in special schools, home schooled him, or sent him to a military academy? It’s easy for people on the outside to give me their pious opinions and rose-colored observations. For MANY years I heard the gossip, rumors, judgmental criticisms, and the “if he were my son” advice and gibberish from people I had once called "friend". God CHOSE me to be Dallas’s mom and I took that calling both joyfully and seriously. I did the best I could and God equipped me with what I lacked.

And today? Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I am so lucky to have had a front row seat to the miracles that are my children. I would never have chosen my path from the Sears and Roebuck Catalog of Paths, but I would have missed the journey! The little boy whose school work at age 6 revealed so much hope and promise is today a young man of 25 whose writings, music, words, and talent reveals so much hope and promise for this day and for the future. I’m so glad I didn’t give up my front row seat to the miracles that are my children.

40 Days!

My son has been on parole for nearly three years. His parole will end 40 days from today! 40 days. Experts will tell you that forty days are all you need to change the course of your life. If you can stick with a new behavior forty days then it will become a habit – a permanent piece of the whole of you. Want to give up smoking? Give it up for 40 days and it will no longer be a habit. If you want to add exercise into your life, it will ONLY take 40 days to make it as routine as breathing. A Google search of “40 Days” opens page after page after page of hits. You can find books, calendars, and personal betterment courses – a veritable buffet of 40-day challenges. Ancient writings and artifacts (including certain monuments) make it clear that a cycle of 40 days was once carefully time tracked. There are extensive math equations that prove how effectively the solar year can be perfectly broken down into 40-day increments. There are even early writings that are attributed to a Jewish philosopher named Philo Judaeous (c. 25 BC - 45 AD) who wrote about the significance of the 40-day cycle, and in fact, made reference to the Biblical book of Genesis. The Bible, you see, is filled with examples of 40-day stints replete with testing and conquering.

In the book of Genesis we read about Noah, his big boat, and the flood that washed the earth. The rains came for forty days and forty nights. When the boat finally came to rest on the top of the mountains of Ararat it was forty days before Noah opened the window. According to the customs of Biblical times, it took 40 days for a body to be embalmed. Moses spent 40 days and nights on the mountain before descending with the tablet on which was written the Ten Commandments. The Lord then told Moses to have some men spend 40 days exploring the land of Canaan and to report back with their findings. The men lied about what they saw and found and so God punished the Israelites by allowing them to wander in the desert for 40 years – one year for each of the days they had been told to explore the land of Canaan. The Old Testament plays out story after story of 40-day encounters, starring heroes like David and Elijah. Even Jesus spent forty days in the desert being tempted by Satan. He did better than the Israelites – no grumbling or complaining. He set the bar for how to successfully deal with our challenges. We give up far more quickly and under far less stress. I confess…I’ve wimped out on a few challenges and I REALLY hate being in the proverbial desert! But in the Bible, as in life today, if we can stick it out for 40 days, there is a rainbow on the other side of the storm. There is milk and honey after the desert.

Okay…I said all that to say this…40 days! Can I get an “Amen!”? My son will be free from “the system” for the first time – well – ever! He was 18 when he became a pretty hard-core drug user and was imprisoned by his addiction. Then he went to jail, then prison, then parole. The next forty days will (for me) be a time of reflecting on where we as a family have been, and rejoicing with my son for where we are today. I am amazed at who my son is and I am blessed to have the privilege of watching him become a man. I’ve encouraged my son to spend some time over the next forty days reflecting – reflecting on where he’s been, who he is today, and where he hopes the road of life will take him next. I plan to take that same advice. I will reflect not only on where I’ve been, but where I NEVER want to return!

Forty days! Amen!

The Christmas Letter

I thought I'd post a copy of the Christmas letter I sent out to family and friends. And hey...in case I hadn't mentioned it enough...I have GREAT kids!! They are brave, beautiful, talented, good, kind people. They have learned lessons the hard way - but they have LEARNED :) How great is that!!

Anyway...here's the letter:

"I can’t believe it’s January 1, 2008! Is it too late to send out Christmas cards? Well…I’m doin’ it ☺

December was a busy month what with Liz appearing in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” at The Second Space Theatre, and directing the Candlelight program at Northwest Church. Tom was busy wrapping up the year at work, playing drums for Candlelight, and preparing for a few weeks off.

This won’t be the traditional “look at what we’ve accomplished this year” kind of letter. Honestly, aren’t you kind of sick of those? Anybody who knows us knows we’ve faced a few challenges. We were humbled and grateful for the simple pleasure of spending Christmas morning with all three of our children and knowing that right here and right now they are safe and healthy. That in and of itself is a true Christmas miracle!

As we look toward a brand new year I ask that you remember to pray for all the moms whose sons are in prison, for the parents whose children are lost in a world of drugs or alcohol, for the teen runaway and their heartsick family, and for children whose mommies and daddies are separated from them by prison walls – whether real or emotional. Disgrace is what we do to each other, but Grace is God’s gift to every one of us! How cool is that!?

Happy New Year from The Stoeckel Family"

Living With Roaches

Last night I drove south on G Street as I have done many times in the past. I've had the privilege of taking part in programs that minister to homeless men at the Fresno Rescue Mission located on G Street, just south of Ventura. It is the Rescue Mission that has most often drawn me to what is for most Fresno residents a VERY undesirable part of town - to say the least.

However, it wasn't the Fresno Rescue Mission that called me to drive to the dark, filthy, drug infested neighborhood that is G Street - it was my son. My oldest son is home from prison on parole. Well, he's not actually at home since the great California Parole System in their wisdom have decided my son shouldn't be around my daughter - who also lives at home. I won't even discuss the rationale behind their decision, as it is in fact irrational, but it is what it is. So, in order to deliver a few bags of groceries to my son I drove past the rescue mission, past too many to count shopping carts, and past the little village known as "tent city" - homes built out of camping tents, garbage bags, and building scraps. Finally I arrived at the small, roach infested motel that the State of California has demanded my son call home for now.

The room my son is living in was everything I expected it would be. There was a bed to the left and a worn, splintering cabinet on the right that cradled a barely working television set with a 15 inch screen. My son pulled back the covers on the bed to reveal holes in the bottom sheet that appeared to have been put there by repeated stabbings from a knife of some sort.

Where is the hope? A newly paroled young man who wants to turn his life around is put in the darkest part of town, surrounded by drug addicts, alcoholics, and the mentally deranged. He is forced to spend at least 14 hours a day in this place and is expected to find a job, stay out of trouble, and find reasons to believe in himself and to have hope.

Jail Visiting Rooms

There are places most of us will never see or visit, but rather our perceptions of said places are formed by their depictions in film, television, or news clips. Those places include the county morgue, a hospital emergency room, a police interrogation room, or the visiting area of the county jail. We've all seen movies which shows the angry wife, the urgent lawyer, the partner in crime, or the frightened child walking into the jail visiting room, sitting down on the cold stainless-steel stool and picking up the phone. We've been the fly on the wall as the red jumpsuit-clad criminal enters the cold hallway on the other side of the glass, picks up his own phone receiver and the conversation begins. No matter how many times I saw that visiting room scenario played out on the big or small screen, nothing prepared me for the flood of emotions that overwhelmed me the first time it was me picking up the phone to talk to my frightened 20 year old son on the other side of that glass.

As the months wore on my weekly visits to the county jail to visit my son got easier. We often laughed, talked easily, and we shared mundane details about our daily routines. He told me about the latest book he was reading and I told him about whatever triumphs and frustrations my day at work had brought (I teach drama to elementary age kids). The weekly visits to my son, however, soon became about more than him and me. I began to watch and learn from the other visitors whose loved ones were on the other side of the glass.

I saw moms and dads hold one another's hands as they encouraged their barely 18-year old sons. I watched as young mothers held their toddlers up to the window so they could see their daddy and so young men could say "I love you" to their confused sons. I was choked with emotion when a handsome young man on the wrong side of the glass was unable to hold back the tears when his small daughter said, "I miss you Daddy" into the mouth of the black receiver. I saw a middle-aged woman, dressed in a green inmate jumpsuit put her hand on the glass and her 20-something year old daughter pressed her hand into the glass and said, "I'm here for you Mom." I have listened to the soft muffled cries of a hurting mother as she stands in the visiting room, unable to move until her son disappears from sight and the heavy door slams shut behind him. In that cold, sterile visiting room we are all the same - mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, and friends. In that place we are all equal, despite our differences - different nationalities, religions, economic stations, and education experiences. We represent broken homes, intact families, dark secrets, happy lives, successes and failures. In that room we are all doing the same things at the same time with the same heart. We are connecting, hoping, sharing, forgetting, encouraging....loving.

I may not ever speak a word to one single person with whom I share that visiting room for 30 minutes every week, but each mom, wife, sister, son, daughter, father, brother, and friend who stands on the "right" side of the glass touches my heart. For 30 minutes a week we are all equal.