Ben had a rough day. The escalation coincided with the rising winds and rain, though that detail was drowned out by turbulence within our walls. John stepped up to handle it, and got right in Benjamin's face.

"Breathe! Breathe! Blow out this candle. Breathe."

Ninety five per cent of the time  that tactic works in getting oxygen to his anxious brain, and the screaming wanes. But this time the flailing increased. John had to hold down Ben's arms to keep him from poking his eyes, and eventually took him outside in an attempt to break the fervor. The noise took a heavy toll on the girls, and I hugged them while they cried. 

Part of my attention was with another son, waiting at an airport an hour away. His plane to Portland had already been delayed two hours, and now the departure time was pushed back three more because of weather. Would he take off at all? Would we need to climb in the car and go get him? How late would his brother have to stay awake to pick him up? Was there a hotel where he could stay if the flight was cancelled? 

Eventually Ben de-escalated and hid in his favorite chair. I stewed. John looked older than usual. He asked how long until the next appointment with a psychiatrist. I checked my phone.

"Three weeks." Three weeks too long. 

"When does his therapist come?" he asked. 

"Hmm, she should have come today."

I prayed an angry prayer, if such an oxymoron is even possible. I asked God to stop Benjamin from exploding, and being so unreasonable. Then I looked over at him. He seemed, well small. 

"Was that hard?" The words slipped out before I could edit them. 

"Yes," he answered before any space between our feelings had time to pop, like a bubble in the wind. 

In that instant my prayer swiveled from egocentric, to Ben centric. How scary must it be to inhabit a body and mind that goes off the rails, dragging you with it? What happens when the people in our lives become not characters in our Life's play, but sentient beings, with struggles of their own?