Things that go “ring” in the night.

“Mom?!”  Bleary-eyed, I took my cell away from my face long enough to see the time. It was 4:15 in the morning. My heart leaped in my throat.

“Christopher? Are you okay? Are you at work?” He had just started a new job, working 4:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., Fridays through Sundays, at a bottle manufacturer about 40 minutes from our house. Although I had initial reservations about him driving that far, at that time of day, Craig and I agreed that it was time for him to start making adult choices. And so far, he seemed to be doing well.

Now he was in the back of a police cruiser. Initially they pulled him over for speeding (5 miles over the posted speed limit), then asked if he was on drugs. He did what we had taught him to do — answer honestly. “Well, I’m on medication for depression,” he admitted. Did he have any pills in the car? “Yes — here they are.” (I had told him to keep a couple of spare pills in his wallet, in case he forgot to take his meds on the way out the door one morning.”)

Apparently that was “reasonable suspicion.” So they put him in the back of the car, searched his vehicle (I got a bit of grim satisfaction out of the thought of them wading through mounds of fast-food wrappers, searching in vain for contraband). Then they told him to call me and get a picture of his prescription bottle, to prove the pills were his. That was when I got the call.

I produced the picture, they debated a little more, and finally let him go without a ticket (thank God — that would have been the second one in a week). But he was an hour late for work.

The next day, he got pulled over for having a headlight burned out. We got the bulb, and since Craig was gone and the garage was closed for the weekend I suggested he get one of his co-workers to help — or to ask the next cop to pull him over to give him a hand.

But the more I thought about it, the more anxious I got. Despite his scary exterior (“emo” haircut and dressed head to toe in black, behind the wheel of a  rusty old Buick), Chris is in many ways much younger than his age. And like his sister, he has “invisible” impairments from his early years before he came to us, that makes him especially vulnerable to impulsive behavior, especially under pressure. While we expect him to respect the law and obey the police … I felt like he was driving around with a target on his back. So … I sent a letter to the police chief of that small town. I explained that my son had a new job that meant he would be driving through their jurisdiction in the wee hours on weekends, that he had worked hard to get this job, and was saving toward a new car. I explained why he seemed “squirrelly” and asked him to alert his officers to the reasons for his behavior — in case they encountered him again.

This morning I got a nice note from the police chief, thanking me for my letter. He commiserated with me as a parent (he had raised four kids of his own, and knows how those kinds of phone calls can take years off a parent’s life). He assured me that he had spoken to his officers about Chris, and they would remember what I had said if they encountered him again. And to let him know if he could do anything further.

What a relief.

Reading Captain Miller’s note, I was reminded of how many men and women in blue really are good people, doing their job to protect their communities. They don’t know — they can’t know — the full story of every person they encounter. I remember one time when we lived in Pennsylvania, shortly after Chris had been placed in residential therapy, when I made an illegal turn in a neighborhood and got pulled over by the police. Nine-year-old Sarah took one look at the officer who approached my car and started wailing — she was sure he was going to take ME away. I explained the situation briefly, and I can still remember the compassion in that man’s eyes. “Tell you what — I’m going to let you go with a warning, so long as you take this young lady out for ice cream. Have a good day, Ma’am.” Sarah still talks about the day she got me out of a ticket.

Behind every flashing light is a badge. And behind every badge is a beating heart of a person , just as is the driver of the car. Generally a mixture of good and bad — but all human. We all need to be held accountable for our actions. And yet, what the events of this past week with my son have reminded me, we also need to do what we can to add that human element, to build connections and look beyond appearances to the real person beneath.

Thanks, Captain Miller, for meeting me halfway.