The End of an Era

Last night I watched my boys take the court together, their last time on the same team. Twelve years ago my sons—one just turned 4, one not quite 6—stepped on a soccer field together, the younger having begged to get to play like his brother and his sister. From that first moment, the younger son didn’t miss a beat. He got in there and played as well as the older kids. And the older one, from the first, didn’t dismiss his younger brother. He took care of him, encouraged him, included him.

Fast forward to middle school. They had each played on their own soccer and basketball teams, but then soccer ended and for one season—younger brother in 6^th grade, older in 8^th grade—they both wore their school football uniform. Although neither played much, I loved seeing them on the sidelines together.

Almost two years ago, though, we entered a new era. A freshman and a junior, not only did they both play varsity football and basketball, but due to being in a “rebuilding” year in both sports, they both had significant playing time. I can’t describe the feeling of seeing the younger throw a touchdown pass to the older. The older kick the extra point while his younger brother took the snap and held the ball. Or to watch one pass to the other for a lay-up or a jump shot, to watch the younger stare down a player on the other team who had fouled his brother or the older encourage the younger before a free throw.

Of course they aren’t perfect. Though they often supported each other on the field or court, they also fought some, too. Especially since the older tends to coach as he plays—and younger one is a perfectionist that doesn’t need to be told what he just did wrong. But even when they were at odds, I knew it wouldn’t last. A few hours later, they were back to teammates, trying to figure out how to get the next win.

I know it is time for the older one to move on to a college life that may or may not include basketball. But the next two years of watching our youngest son perform without his brother will feel strange. Not bad. Just different. So today I mourn the end of an era.

How do you deal with changes in the season of your life? What is an upcoming change you wish would hold off a little longer—or maybe one you wish would hurry up and arrive?

Our Texas Rangers

The World Series starts tonight. And our Texas Rangers are playing. I still can't believe it!

I grew up in a family of sports fans. Some of my earliest memories are eating Thanksgiving dinner between the Detroit and Dallas games, watching college football games on New Years, and listening to Texas Rangers games on the radio. In the summer of 1976 I can remember our family going to a Ranger game to sit in the bleachers. The unusual thing about that trip? It even included my baby sister who was only a few weeks old!

All that to say: we are not bandwagon Rangers fans. I had a t-shirt replica of that old baby blue jersey. I was a card-carrying member of Jim Sundberg’s Junior Rangers. We had bats from bat night. T-shirts from t-shirt night. Gloves from glove night. For our family of six, we could sit in the bleachers and take our own food and have a fun family night that didn’t cost much. (I don’t think I had anything from the concession stand until I was an adult!)

When my husband, a huge fan of baseball in general, arrived in Texas, he immediately became a Rangers fan, joining a group at work with season tickets. We attended the opening day at The Ballpark, me more often in the bathroom than in my seat since I was newly pregnant with my third child. (Maybe that’s why baseball is his favorite game.) We won the lottery draw for the seats to the All-Star Game played there, too. We even attended one of the ill-fated playoff games in the 90s.

As our children got busier and we moved further from the stadium, we gave up our seats, but that didn’t change our love for the Rangers, our hope every spring that this would be the year. And now it is. Such a sweet victory for a life-long Ranger fan and her twenty-three year Ranger fan spouse. The only thing better: A World Series win.

Let’s go, Rangers!

Lessons for Life

My husband and I have always said, to our children and to others, that playing sports teaches our children many life lessons. But this spring season, their sports activities illustrated lessons for me!

Our older son ran track. Now track is not his favorite. In fact, he really doesn’t enjoy it much. He ran long distances his freshman and sophomore year because his friend did. He managed to make it to the regional meet both years in those events. This year, he was ready for a break when basketball ended. But his football/basketball coach told him he needed to run track to get ready for next year’s football and basketball seasons. Being the dutiful child that he is, he complied. And then my lessons started.

The coach asked him to switch races, from the one-mile and two-mile to the half-mile. Now the half-mile race (or 800 Meter race, as it is called these days) is really a very long sprint. And my son is not a sprinter by any stretch of the imagination! But again, if there is one innate character quality this child possesses, it is obedience to authority. So he did it. And he gave it all his effort, in spite of it not being a sport or a race he would choose. He ended up making the regional meet by a hair and bringing up the rear (almost) in that race. But here’s what I learned: the coach was very proud of my son because he ran the race he’d asked him to run and did it with his whole heart.

Isn’t that how it is with God? Doesn’t he sometimes ask us to run a race not of our choosing? Do we still put our all into it, just because He asked? I’m afraid my answer is not always a yes to that question. But hearing my son’s coach basically say, “Well done, good and faithful servant”, even when he didn’t come close to finishing first, made me realize again that the Lord isn’t concerned about the results that appear before the world. He’s concerned with how we run the race He’s asked us to run.

In a similar vein, I sat through a dismal baseball season with my younger son. We had snagged a new coach, an older man who knows baseball and loves to teach it. So it was a learning year. The biggest thing these boys had to learn? Listen to the coach! When they were on the bases, if coach said run, you were to run, not worry whether or not you thought you’d be out. Your job was to obey. The responsibility for the outcome then lay with the coach.

Isn’t that how the Lord desires us to be? To have our eyes fixed on Him and our hearts so set on obedience that when He says run, we run. When He says stay, we stay, even if it looks to us like we could have safely make it to the next base. I admit, I often stop when He says go and go when He says stop. But I’m learning to trust His voice and obey, for it is obedience He desires, not sacrifice—and not necessarily a “safe” arrival. Just obedience.

So while we had little “success” on the track or the diamond this season, we all learned lessons for life this season.

Olympics

Are you watching the Olympics? In spite of the influx of professionals into the venue, I still love the pageantry and the stories of athletes from around the world that overcome great odds. Like the lone participant from Ghana—that country’s first ever winter Olympian. He’s a skier. His nickname is The Snow Leopard. Or the young American ski jumper that received his trip to the Olympic qualifying trials as his Christmas present from his family. He didn’t even make the medal round, but I imagine that didn’t much matter. Of course there is tragedy, too. Like watching the faces of the other athletes from Georgia as they paraded into the arena after losing their teammate to the luge accident.

More stories will surface in the next few days. We’ll cheer for those who have persevered through hardship or loss. We’ll watch as some favored to win their events will, indeed, win. We’ll watch as others, considered long shots, rise to the occasion and end up on the podium with a medal circling their necks and the emotion of watching their country flag ascend flickering across their faces. It’s a good thing the Olympics only come every two years. I’m not sure I could stand the suspense or emotion any more often than that!