Suitcases are rolling. Backpacks strain at the seams. Laundry bags scream for air.

Watching students check in at a nearby college, I recall another check-in day, years ago.

The night before taking off for college, don’t most kids pack?  They decide what goes into the suitcase, what can wait for Christmas break, what goes to a younger sibling, or what gets recycled.

Not Jacob.  The night before he entered college was like any other. Barely home before midnight, he sulked alone in his room.  Not a single suitcase, let alone a sock, got packed.

Summer was ending.  But the calendar wasn’t in control of our household.

Addiction was.

The next morning was worse.

It hurts to remember. Imagine starting college and your mother has to wake you up.

At some point overnight he’d made an attempt.  A few tee shirts and shorts tumbled out of an open duffle bag on his floor.

I was determined to get him to school.  Surely the good people at the university – who work with college kids every day – would know how to help him. They must see students like him all the time.  They would succeed where I couldn’t.

Help him unpack. Verify he registers for his classes. Make sure he finds his classes.  See that he eats well.  Sleeps well.  Motivate him.  Mother him   Father him.

Today I laugh at the expectations.  I wanted the school to do what neither I nor his father nor anyone could.

I wanted the college to cure my son.

But it wasn’t’ up to them or us.  It was up to Jacob.

Years later we stood in a packed gymnasium cheering as he held his diploma high.

It was a double victory.

Not just for his hard-won degree – but also for his recovery – and mine.

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