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The tendrils of sleep still linger about him as he walks into the room. Without a word, he lies down beside me, snuggling closely beneath a blanket the color of raw silk. He is wearing his dinosaur pajama bottoms, but his chest is bare. I wrap my arms around him, and lean over to place a soft kiss on his honey-brown shoulder, where the sun has brushed its lips before me.
Later, when the air is thick and still with heat, we will make our way down the trail. We will walk silently as the sun beats down without compassion onto the top of my head, and his red baseball cap. The heat will make the trail seem longer than we remembered, and just when we reach the point of regretting coming at all, an opening will appear like a gift in the brush on the right. He will shout for joy, and then we will slip into the shadowed coolness.
It will take only a moment for him to abandon sandals, hat, and shirt on the bank before his dog follows him into the icy flow. I wade in as well, but only up to my calves as I watch the two of them explore under mossy rocks looking for crayfish, while hoping for a fiercer beast.
After awhile, I will return to the bank and find respite on a fallen log as I watch them settle into a quiet pool where dappled sunlight plays upon the water’s surface, drinking deeply of all it means to be a boy and his dog on a summer’s afternoon.
The deep shadows of that place will lull us into timelessness, and when we finally emerge onto the trail again, we will find the world a different place entirely, black storm clouds blocking out the once fierce sun. Suddenly, the wind will be upon us, and fear will seize us as we realize we have tarried too long, and have no place to hide. The rumbling thunder will break the spell, and then, with the driving rain behind us, and the trees lashing in terror above us, we will race for home.
“Run! Run!” We will shout to each other until at last, shelter is within reach, and we fling ourselves inside, slamming the door behind us, to stand dripping, radiant with survival.
Then, he will turn and climb the stairs to go change into something drier, while I busy myself gathering together the pieces of the memory, tucking it safely away for lonelier times.
I’ll never forget the first time I held her. When I knelt down onto the dirty concrete floor and gathered her into my arms after two years of waiting, there was no way to stop the tears.
She was tiny- so much lighter than she should have been, like a porcelain doll. Weeks later, when my husband and I were bringing her and her baby sister home at last, we were forced to sprint through the Miami airport with them in our arms to make our next flight.
Our carry-on bags were far heavier.
Two days later we took them to the doctor. She shook uncontrollably in the waiting room, so terrified I feared she would go into shock. As soon as the doctor walked into the room, both girls began to scream in terror. We did all we could to comfort them, but the memories of previous experiences with medical professionals were too fresh.
A few days later the results of the first limited examination were complete. She had not one vicious parasite, but five. Many doses of medicine later, her distended stomach began to shrink. The color returned to her face. Bones lengthened, and muscles thickened.
Three years later she went in for her 8-year-old well check to the pediatrician who once terrified her. He walked into the room, and she greeted him with a twinkling eyes, and a big hug. The official diagnosis: Strong as an ox.
Soon, we would discover that she had grown as fleet as a deer as well.
I watched her run tonight, a perfect stride than can only be inherited, not taught. Long brown legs pumped to keep up with fellow track team members years her senior. A little while later, the little girl who was so weak 3 years ago that she could not climb into the family van by herself, nailed 11ft 3inches in the long jump.
The Miracle Maker is alive and well.
And I am just honored to be a witness on the sidelines.
“….we have kept going with the faith that as we struggle, God struggles with us, and that the arc of the moral universe, although long, is bending toward justice…..We have seen truth crucified and goodness buried, but we have kept going with the conviction that truth crushed to earth will rise again.”
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. December 20, 1956
The season is over, but Little Man is still wearing his uniform, dirty and stained from that last tournament game. It is hard to let go of something a boy loves so much.
The Reds were a Little League team with a whole lot of heart, and a fair amount of talent to go with it. It was Little Man’s first year to play, and that early spring night of practice, a chill hung in the air when he nervously walked out onto the field for the first time. He was a seven-year-old on a team of mostly eight-year-olds. Several of them were entering the season with four years of play already under their belts. They could field with consistency, and hit with precision, racking up stats that would rival grown men in the Majors.
Little Man had none of that. He was without question the weakest player on the team. That first night, he had no concept of baseball. He had never heard of RBI’s, double plays, or cut-off men. He did not know how to hold a bat, and ducked every time someone threw him the ball,but after that first practice, he talked excitedly about baseball all the way home. One taste of The Great American Pastime, and he was hopelessly in love.
In no time at all, he developed a fierce commitment to his team. No one could outwork him, or felt a loss any deeper. One day, as we rode along in the car, and he sat contemplatively in the back, he told me that he did not have to think about what sport he wanted to play in the fall, or the spring that followed. It was baseball for him, or nothing at all.
Which is why it is so heartbreaking that, for Little Man, success was so elusive. Oh, he made improvement, certainly, but time and time again, the outcome at home plate was the same for him.
Strike one. Strike two. Strike three.
The last game of the season was a battle. Coaches were focused. Boys gave it their all. Parents lost their voices from screaming encouragement. Little Man had a strong hit that made it into the outfield. He stood victoriously on first, as one of his teammates ran across home in his wake. Later on, Little Man made it across home plate too.
But in the end, The Reds fell, and the season was over two games sooner than anyone wanted it to be.
I saw Little Man fighting back tears as he packed his bag to leave the dugout for the last time. I watched the battle for control of his emotions play out in those green eyes as he wrestled his broken heart into submission. By the time he stepped out of the dugout, and took his place with his team to listen to the Coach’s speech one last time, he was fully composed.
The coach called on each boy in turn to stand, and tell the team what they liked most about the season. When he called on Little Man, he stood quickly to attention, looked his coach in the eye and said, “I learned to play.”
“Yes, you did.” The coach replied. “Yes, you did.”
He told his coach good-bye, and that he would see him in the fall. Then, he stoically walked to the car with a third place trophy in his hands.
The minute he made it to the safety of the backseat, he collapsed into sobs. I stood at the door, my eyes filled with tears.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I asked. “You had a great hit.”
“I just wanted a few more games,” he wailed. “Let’s just go!”
I climbed into the car, and we began the solemn drive home as warm summer winds drifted in through our open windows, and the fireflies crept from their hiding places to light the night.
After a while, his tears subsided. I watched in the rear view mirror as he strapped his trophy into the seat belt beside him for safe keeping, and choked back tears of my own.
I think a lot of us enter parenting with this idea that we are in a position of being mighty overseers of our children. We are so sure of all we will teach them, certain that the years that follow will find us molding their character, fueling their dreams…
What I never realized was how humbling the journey would be for me. When I held my first newborn, no one could have told me how much my children would refine my character, or how much they would teach me.
“I bet that first-place trophy is as big as me,” Little Man said wistfully as he wiped his tears. “But, we did finish third out of twenty-something teams. That’s good.”
I gazed lovingly at my boy in the rear view mirror. Courageous. Resiliant. Loyal, and passionate.
And I knew beyond any doubt that when I grow up, I want to be just like him.
