Free Plan B by Anne Lamott

market, at the video arcade. Finally they find him, in the last place they thought to look—the Temple. And immediately, he mouths off: Oh, sorry, sorry, I was busy doing all this other stuff, my father’s work. Like, Joseph, you’re not my real father—you’re not the boss of me. I don’t even have to listen to you.
    And what is Mary doing this whole time?
    Mary’s got a rock in her hand.
    I turned around. Sam sat grimly, and I fixed him with gimlet eyes, pinning him to the seat until he could see the error of his ways.
    It seems idiotic for Sam to challenge me so often, since he has no income to speak of, and he can’t drive. I looked at the face in the altar, toothless and muckled, with its folded-over mouth. In the alder branches above me, a little gray bird flitted about, modest but melodious. The leaves of the alder quivered. I started to miss Sam. He’s every single good thing, including honest, and openly questioning, and angry, that I love so much. The other day he said, with enormous hostility, “We are the only family I know that doesn’t display its china.” I responded nicelythat we don’t have any china, and he said, “That’s my point.”
    The hills behind me were close, curvy and feminine. The quaking leaves of the alder sounded like rain against a skylight.
    I looked over at my bad boy. He was staring out the window with resigned misery, as if he were on his way to the dentist. I thought about stoning him. Jesus would have said, “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, and tax collectors, and thirteen-year-olds,” which means, “You are totally pissing me off.” And he’d have said this right before he picked up a rock.
    I bet he had a good arm, being a carpenter and all. I bet he could take a kid out at 150 yards. I thought of Sam’s most infuriating habits; how snotty he can act, how entitled, his clothes and towels always dropped on the floor; the way he answers the phone, sounding like Henry Kissinger and only pretending to take down messages.
    What a mess we are, I thought. But this is usually where any hope of improvement begins, acknowledging the mess. When I am well, I know not to mess with mess right away; I try to let silence and time work their magic. You don’t get far through grinding your teeth and heavy breathing. You noodle around, to warm up, and youmeander, to find out if there are any improvisations that call to you. In this case, that meant for me to get up and move around.
    I decided to get out from under the weight of his gaze and discomfort, and so I lay down beside the log. There were small, antic wildflowers in the grass beside me. I closed my eyes and listened to the little birds, to the alders and the grass. I breathed in the hay smell of the grass, toasty, with the hint of distant forest fires, and lots of sweetness, like clean laundry.
    I was still and attentive and I prayed, and eventually some of my anger dissipated. After a while, I heard the car door open. It was as if, once things were more peaceful in me, the deer or the bobcat could come out of the thicket to case the joint. I heard his footsteps approach, and I sat up. When he came over, he was both, deer and bobcat, tentative, dangerous, and teary. He stood a few feet away, looking back at the car.
    He sighed and began to speak. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole,” he said.
    I’d sort of been hoping he’d say something I could report back to my pastor, but I saw how bad he felt, how lonely.
    â€œOkay?” he said.
    I shook my head and sighed. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole, too.”
    He sat down in the dirt, and we talked in a stilted, unhappy way. I practiced being right for a while, and he was sullen; then I practiced being kind. Things improved a bit. My friend Mark, who works with church youth groups, reminded me recently that Sam doesn’t need me to correct his feelings. He needs me to