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We were pulling out of the driveway yesterday morning when the leprechaun on our Notre Dame flag caught my attention. The flag waved in the wind and it almost looked like the mighty mascot of the Fighting Irish was waving goodbye to us. I couldn’t help but get caught up in the moment and shout “Go Irish.” “You’re yelling that because I have my Notre Dame shirt on aren’t you daddy?” Elliott asked. He must have missed the leprechaun’s wave. “Actually,” I said, “we all have our Notre Dame gear on. You and Ian have your shirts; I have my hat.” “But mama doesn’t have anything Notre Dame on,” observed Elliott. I looked over at Katie and noticed Elliott was right. Not a speck of blue or gold or green to be found. No leprechauns or shamrocks. Katie looked at me, her face an unspoken plea for help. You could see her thinking about snatching the hat off of my head. I couldn’t leave her hanging out there like that, on an island, a traitor to our Saturday afternoon sports passions. I decided to throw her a lifeline. “Mama has her Notre Dame underwear on,” I said. There was no way they would verify it, and my lovely wife would be freed from her current torment. An instant before I heard the laughter explode like two car bombs in the back seat, I noticed this look on Katie’s face. It was a look that seemed to ask: “What’s the matter with you, do you realize you just planted two car bombs in the back seat. A car we’re in. A car containing our children?” I prayed the laughing would stop. With Elliott, my prayer was answered. Ian was listening to the devil on his other shoulder, or I’m sure Katie would argue, the one in the driver’s seat. His laughter turned to giggle and his giggle to something I worried was eternal. I could hear it continue all the way to daycare next week when his teacher would get him to finally stop, and then he would calmly say: “My mama is wearing Notre Dame underwear.” I didn’t consider this before I made the underwear comment. It is amazing the clarity of thought that comes when your life is at risk. The panic all mine now, I worked to settle Ian. It took a few minutes, but the laughter subsided. I don’t know why, but something inside of me wouldn’t allow me to simply treasure the silence. Leave bad enough alone. I was curious, though, I had to ask. “Ian, why was that so funny?” “You’re silly, daddy, girls don’t wear underwear.” I found some relief in that. I felt it was now much more likely that Ian would tell his teachers and friends that his mama didn’t wear underwear. A notion I didn’t provide. I promise. And at this point, I was finally willing to leave bad enough alone. So I let the car grow quiet and wrote it off as a good laugh. At least it was for most of us. Elliott started soccer last week and had his first game yesterday. My family and friends have found humor in this. I guess I’ve spent many years setting up the big joke that is now squarely on me. On my most lighthearted days, I’ve questioned the inclusion of soccer on the master list of sports. Badminton and curling and even cheerleading, I get, but soccer, that one I struggle with. I guess I grew up throwing balls, so the mere notion that a sport forbids you from even picking the ball up seems backward. Not to mention ties. How can two teams play two hours in front of crowds that often exceed a hundred thousand people in some places around the world, only to have the game end in a 0-0 tie. Then team and crowd alike celebrate like something wonderful just happened. On my more serious days, I have probably suggested that no child of mine would ever play soccer. OK, I did suggest it. I might have even said once or twice that once my children learned the first 10 commandments, I would add an 11th. Thou shall not play soccer. I guess I didn’t foresee how much Elliott likes kicking a ball. As much, if not more, than he likes picking it up and throwing it and catching it. I didn’t foresee the smile he gets when he moves the ball with his feet from one end of a field to another. And no, that is not dribbling. Kobe dribbles. Soccer players move the ball with their feet from one end of a field to another. The truth is, there are days I get caught up in Elliott and Ian’s athletic potential. Shoot, I get caught up in their academic potential and their ability to sing and act and read. If I admire it long enough, I can begin to give Katie and me credit (Although I’m never really tempted to credit Katie for their singing ability). It was Elliott who squared me away on this thinking last week. We were driving and Ian asked me when the rain was going to stop. I was ready to begin giving him an answer filled with the knowledge I’ve gained as a weather nut. I was going to dazzle him with meteorology. Elliott cut me off, though. “It will stop raining when God wants it to Ian,” he said. I was reminded that all of the boys’ talents and skills are gifts from God. They reflect Him far more than me or Katie. We are entrusted to help them discover those gifts, even if one happens to be soccer. As I watched Elliott run up and down the field Sunday, I was thankful to have a child who can run, because not all of them can. I was thankful to be a parent cheering on the sideline of an athletic field and not at the side of a hospital bed, praying for the miracle that will open my child’s eyes. And I was reminded how the silly debates of this world: soccer or tee-ball, fence or no fence, democrat or republican – they are all distractions from the many blessings that are without debate. 
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9/14/2011 0 Comments A Story In No Hurry To EndWith all of the alternative news stories in my life the last couple of weeks: devastating Notre Dame football losses, hurricanes and earthquakes (listed in the order of devastation brought upon my life), I have neglected to share one that I once thought was less newsworthy. But it has apparently become the Barack Obama birth certificate story of my life – it just won’t go away. Let me first give you some background to the story. Shortly after we got married, Katie began suggesting that I wasn’t a great driver. I drove too fast. I followed other cars too closely. I switched lanes without using my blinker (mostly because there was no one between here and Oregon who would have seen that blinker). The list of attacks on my ability to safely get us from point A to point B were endless. I began to wonder if I hadn’t married a budding Driver’s Ed instructor. I fully expected to come out one morning and find one of those goofy signs sitting on top of my truck. Then, the first miracle happened. Katie was in an automobile accident. Thank God no one was hurt or it wouldn’t work well in my story. I think she was looking at roadside flowers (knowing her, she was taking pictures of them) and didn’t notice a vehicle in front of her. She hit it. In fairness, it was a big weekend for us. Our families were coming to town to celebrate our marriage that had taken place several months earlier, which is an entirely different post. The point is, her mind was preoccupied, which might explain her willingness to depart from a religious-like clinging to safe following distances. From that point forward, when she offered me driving advice, I referenced back to that unfortunate incident. Usually in a way that simply asked us both to pause for a moment and reflect on our driving records and determine who in our little family last had a driving infraction. Initially, her defense for this was to bring up my driving record from my youth. Like the fact that I lost my driver’s license before I ever had it (a small little incident of borrowing a boss’s car and getting it run over by a tractor trailer truck when I was 15 years old). Then, the second miracle happened. My auto insurance carrier, a small firm by the name of STATE FARM INSURANCE, decided they wanted to recognize my 10-year perfect driving record. They sent me a beautiful certificate to honor the occasion. I made copies and posted them anywhere near where I thought it was remotely possible my wife might address my driving habits. It took awhile to get used to looking through those certificates covering the inside of my windshield. I never had to bring up her auto accident again; I just pointed at one of my certificates. And now the story becomes less than miraculous. A couple of weeks ago I was driving Elliott and Ian to grandma and grandpa’s house. It was a beautiful morning. The boys were keeping themselves quiet in the back seat, so I took advantage of some uninterrupted thinking time, right up until – the interruption. We were about 3 minutes from our destination. I was driving down a small crossroad when I paused my deep thought for a moment to check my rear view mirror. Nothing breaks a peaceful trance like the flashing lights of a police car. I’m still trying to recall what my first thought was when I saw them. I’ve reduced it to three possibilities:
I watched the officer approach me through my side mirror. “Sir, do you have any idea why I pulled you over?” I looked down at my speedometer. It was stuck in a blank space somewhere beyond 120mph. How many times had Katie told me I needed to get that fixed? “No sir, I really don’t know how fast I was going, really. But if you’ve pulled me over, I’m sure it was too fast.” I was doing 54 in a 35, which meant my speedometer was only off by about 70mph, which is really better than I expected. I tried to tell the officer about my perfect driving record, even offered to show him one of my certificates. He showed me a ticket. The officer made friends with the two quiet boys in the back seat. And if there was a blessing in the event, the boys’ first encounter with a police officer left them with the impression that policemen really are the good guys. I had no idea what the boys were going to say when we pulled away. It was quiet for a minute or so before Elliott finally spoke up. “Daddy,” he said, “We just got pulled over by a policeman. We’ve never done that before. Not on the way to Cicis, not on the way to church, not on the way to anywhere. We did something new.” Oh yes Elliott, we live a life of excitement. A few days later when I was sitting in the back room, Elliott came walking back there wearing a cowboy hat that he obviously thought looked a lot like the policeman’s hat. He looked at me with a big grin, then said: “Excuse me sir, but you’re driving too fast.” A car passed us the other night on the way to dinner. Ian said, “daddy, they better slow down or they’re going to get pulled over by the police.” “Yes,” said Elliott, “they are going WAY too fast, just like daddy did.” Needless to say, it is a story that isn’t going anywhere. And in the background, Katie just smiles.    |