“What’s wrong with James?” my youngest daughter said.

“I don’t know,” a lame reply, but it was the best I could give at the time.

I’ve learned over the last 16 years, 8 months and 3 days, but who is counting, that my first born does not like to be probed about his issues. In defense of my motherly instinct to jump up from my computer and solve my oldest child’s problems … I forced myself to merely casually observe him as I walked back and forth from the kitchen, creating a need for a glass of water. My youngest was right … something was wrong. James was brooding.

I returned to my computer allowing the better part of maternal valor to win my internal struggles.

Minutes later my 6 foot tall brooding giant of my little man came in and stood beside my computer chair. He loomed there in silence for a moment, or so, before the soft words came out of his mouth.

“Lisa broke up with me today,” is all he said. When I looked up at him his quiet green eyes were rimmed in red and filled with the clear liquid of a broken heart.

“I’m sorry baby,” I said as I stood, wrapping my arms around him and letting his silence linger. He was more like me then I had realized. He cried in silence, hands or were they fists, stuffed in his pants pockets, slouching he rested his head on my shoulder.

My normal instinct to fix “it” no matter what “it” is did not swell to overflowing within me. I stood holding my son for minutes without saying a word. I waited for him to speak, for him to share.

He shifted his head, turning it so he could speak, but still be cradled in the crick of his mommy’s neck, “this hurts more than I ever thought it would.”

“Yes, baby, it does,” I said softly tightening my arms that encircled him, hoping to reassure him of his security.  “Isn’t it amazing how a muscle in your chest can hurt so much,” I said in almost a whisper, speaking to the analytical side of my son. I felt the tension in his body recede slightly. “Now you know why they call it a broken heart.”

“She said that the Bible tells her that we can’t be in a relationship together because we don’t have the same beliefs,” he divulged through clenched teeth.

 I was at a loss for words. I knew he was looking for answers; from me. Thoughts ran through my mind. Say the right thing here… this is a make it or break it moment. I knew what I said would be important -- to my son, to our mother/son relationship, to the success or failure of my son coming to his mother in his time of need. My silence allowed him the window to speak. He spoke two words.

“That’s communist.” The words were filled with hatred.

“It’s not communist son,” I said at almost a whisper. He raised his head and pulled his torso back so he could look into my eyes.

“Do you know what communist means?”

I quickly tried to wrap my mind around the word like a 16-year-old, not a 43-year-old, “Yes Love, it means controlling.”

“Yah and that book is communist!”

“No Love, it is not communistic.” I said keeping my voice soft and my tone light, emphasizing the “istic” part of the word, hoping to teach him to learn to use his vocabulary correctly. “It is her belief and her faith is important to her. It has been all along.” My mind raced. Knowing my son’s belief in God was under construction.

“It’s not fair,” his tears not being hidden anymore, “I believed her when she said she loved me.” His face contorted; as he looked at me I saw the confusion fill his eyes. I silently prayed I would say the right thing.

“She did love you,” I let the rest of my thought lay silent: who couldn’t love you. It was not time to be playful or mushy. It was time to support his upbringing, his halted faith and his broken heart. I needed to build upon the foundation of blind faith that I had been showing my son his entire life. A blind faith he admitted he did not understand.

I thought about repeating one of my favorite isms, “Like Pope John Paul said, as long as we are all heading towards God, the same God, what does it matter if you are Catholic, Jewish, Protestant, or Baptist?” but I decided against it. Instead I replied, “I don’t agree with that.” What else do you say to a boy who is questioning faith, questioning God, not his existence but questioning a God who would put qualifiers on love? It was time for tangible examples.

“If that were true then Uncle Frank and Aunt Myra would not be making it. He is not a Muslim like she is. But they both believe in God and that is what is important there.” Not knowing if that was the right answer I stayed silent letting him digest the example, hoping it was the right one.

 He laid his head back on my shoulder, his body a smidge less tense. My gut said silence would be the best medicine. I let the silence and my comforting hold do their work. Minutes passed, I desired to change his painful focus.

“What time is your meet today?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“Then you need to call Summer and find out when you need to be at school.

“I really don’t want to go,” he said making me remember Lisa was on the swim team too.”

“When did this happen?”

“Today at noon,” he said with puppy dog sadness in his eyes.

 “Well that wasn’t very nice of her. Couldn’t she wait?” I knew it was a rhetorical question, but my son’s eyes telegraphed that he had been thinking the same thing.

My mind raced again. Teenagers, why couldn’t they think past themselves? Bet she forgot she’d have to see him this afternoon at the meet. I searched my memories to high school break-ups… track and field meets I had to attend after a break-up. I didn’t have a lot of time to ponder. My son was looking to me for guidance, for permission to not go, but this was another life defining moment and that is what I focused on.

“Go call Summer and be a big boy,” here was my chance at interjecting humor at the ‘right’ moment, “and go shave your legs.” I smiled up at him with a glint of playfulness. He looked at me with a doubtful ‘oh, come on mom’ look just before he slowly turned to keep his obligations to the team.