Tag: Special

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The Journey

“There is meaning in every journey that is unknown to the traveller” – Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

Three years ago my father, brother, and I lived these words as we drove to Canada. Our purpose was to visit a family friend who lay dying. But there was another purpose hidden in that trip, of which we knew nothing at the time.

Driving through the bleak landscape of upstate New York our conversation turned to matters of the heart. The solemnity of our purpose drew out discussion about death, life, love, faith. The three of us shared openly at the inmost level. It was cathartic and deeply bonding. And though we could not know it at the time, that conversation became a touchstone throughout my own father’s decline and death earlier this year.

It had been years since I was in my hometown. I took the wrong exit. This took us past our old church. We stopped in on a whim and slipped into the back to join the evening service. Each of us was filled with grace in that moment.  Though unspoken at the time, we each knew we were on holy ground. We were somehow meant to be there, together as a family, and together for our dying friend.

We saw her the next morning. She lay in bed in her living room, sun beaming through the window, surrounded by family. Our time together was filled with tears and laughter, as it should be. We wept with joy recalling the times beyond number of outrageous fun. We wept knowing this was the last time we would all be together in this life. Once again the conversation moved gracefully to matters of the heart. As a result my brother and I quickly drew close with the family daughters, whom we had known well as children but had not seen in many long years.

This January, during my dad’s memorial service in Canada, this very same family–these same daughters–provided the anchor for my brother and me. Who else could so closely identify with our grief? And who could ever have foreseen this at the time? “Life is lived forwards, but is only understood looking backwards”-Søren Kierkegaard.

Marian in Spring

Beams of light bend through the trees

The beauty brings me to my knees

Golden peace cascading to the ground

Silence all around, and simple stillness save

The bending ferns and flowers bowing down

Spring begins her overflow

The season’s graceful undertow

Drawing life from every dormant bloom

You sail on her tide, as sparkling laughter flows

Encircling hearts to yours throughout the room

Marian our dearest friend

Your life a gift that never ends

By the Living Springtime you embraced

You in dappled light, the Maker’s heart, and ours

The sweetest springtime garland interlaced

This post is dedicated to our late friend who passed away three years ago this week, to her dear family, and to my own dad this Father’s Day – my first without him.

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Summer Victory

I coached a little league baseball team that was Bad News Bears bad. But we won a classic victory over the forces of evil during the final game of the summer season.

I really did have a special team. Kids who had no running shoes. Kids who had never once before worn a baseball glove. Brothers with physical and mental challenges, plus my son and a couple of other regular kids. Our team had not won a game all season. I would say to the other coaches before each game, “I am teaching these guys the very basics, so would you be OK if we keep it all slow and simple?”

Every other coach in the league had responded to this request as you would expect. They happily worked around us. Not this coach. His team had not lost a game all season and this was the end of their year. “OK.” He grunted resentfully. “But if you guys start to win we’re gonna steal bases. It’s the league rules and we’re going to abide by them.” Yay! Little league spirit!

One of my special needs kids always played first base, a position that does not demand a lot of running.  I coached him: foot on base, turn to the field, raise glove, catch ball. Each time he would go through this mental checklist. Except he never got past “foot on base”. By the time he got that far he usually had gotten a ball in the face. He never used his glove. He was Ball-in-Face. And he insisted on playing first.

So the game began. And my boys just rained baseball. They were slugging the ball, fielding well. Ball-in-Face was making out after painful out. It was magic to see the delight on the faces of the boys. The other team came up to bat. Their first hit and they stole a base. My boys went crazy. So I called time out and explained how it worked. I told them not to worry about it. Lets just get the outs and have fun.

The next time we got up to bat, up to plate walks Ball-in-Face. He was our worst hitter and he ran like Forest Gump in leg braces. In came the pitch. He hit a little dribble up the third base line.

After admiring his little hit for a moment, he remembered to run and began to lumber towards first. He would never beat the throw. But the other team was so surprised he had hit the ball that they were late with the throw, which sailed over the first baseman’s head. Ball-in-Face thundered around first and headed to second. I screamed at him not to do so. He was s sitting duck out there.  But the same thing happened at every base:  the other team would overthrow, coaches would yell for him to stop, Ball-in-Face would keep running. And damned if he didn’t score.

Every parent and every team mate leapt from the stands to meet him as he crossed home. This was the first time he had ever scored, perhaps in any game, in any sport, anywhere. I also knew it would be his last: he was already playing down two years because of his disabilities. The league would not let him play again next year. But he had gotten his run!

As we regained our composure I did a quick mental consolidation. “Ump”, I said. “Can I confirm that we are past minimum time, both teams have had equal at bats, I am the home team, and that I have the right to call the game if I want, correct?”

“Correct.” Said the Ump.

“Then may I ask you please: what is the score?” He checked. We were up by one run. I called the game.

Pandemonium. In that moment my team of beautiful losers had won the Superbowl, the Stanley Cup, The World Cup, and every other combined cup, all at the same time. They were leaping, hugging, screaming.

The other coach stormed over to where I was thanking the ump for the game. “You can’t do that!”, he said. “There’s plenty of time to play ball and my guys want more at bats”.  I looked at him and said, “It’s the league rules and we’re going to abide by them”. Victory complete.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

This story is dedicated to our hosts from Arkansas, the best baseball family we know.

 

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Special Christmas Advent Appeal – 4/12/2017

Africa: December, 2003.

They thought she was dead when they first found her, half-buried in the excrement at the bottom of the outhouse.  Certainly that had been the intent. Born unwanted in the night and lowered into the latrine by a desperate African mother, probably herself barely more than a child. She was a day old at most, lying silent in the filth, vermin crawling from her nose and ears.

But she was not dead. Someone fished her out, cleaned her up, and took her to The Babies Home.

Even the most seasoned hands at the orphanage were shocked by this little one’s circumstances. A staff member there remarked that the child was not alone in the tragic nature of her arrival. They noted that Christ himself had likewise been born into this world by way of a dung-heap, long ago arriving into the filth of a barn floor, care of an impoverished mother who was herself barely more than a child.

I found this statement to be cold comfort at the time. Its meaning has become more dear to me with each passing December. I think of that little girl as each Christmas approaches. I wonder what has become of her, and of the amazing things she may have done with the gift of her life.

Befitting the season, the orphanage named her Grace.

This true story is dedicated to BeadforLife. Founded in 2003, the year that Grace was born, BFL is the most effective organization I know of helping African women to permanently lift themselves and their families out of poverty – 46,000 individuals to date and counting. Please consider visiting the BeadforLife web site this holiday season and sharing this story with others. With our support, BeadforLife can help even more women like Grace and her mother to transform their lives, forever.