It's well known in football that you take full advantage of every down second you can when you know you're coming out the next play. A gentle tap in the grass would be my queue on the sidelines, signaling the difference between a true injury and a few extra seconds of down for teammates to catch their breath while his playability was being determined. No tap signalled a reason for concern but only twice in his whole career would that be the case.
Mom-ing is hard. As mothers, we are our own worst enemy and critic. We beat ourselves up over what we've done, what we could have done, what we should have done. There are times we wish we could gently tap the grass, longing for a few extra seconds to breathe. But rarely do we have that convenience.
In our middle son, God crafted a young man who was named leader of the team every single year that he played. It wasn't his charismatic personality. It wasn't his will power and strength of voice to command. It was by gentle service and encouragement to his teammates. Why then, would I be surprised the night God used him to encourage me?
I often bounce things off of him, mostly because we think the most alike. I am able to take his gentle nudgings and rebukes easier than any of our other children. It's not because they're wrong and he's right; it's because of the delivery.
In the quiet, darkness of driving home from his girlfriend's house, I told him some things I was struggling with. Mistakes I had made in raising them and how all of those things are so crushing at times that I feel like a failure. I feel like all of the bad things that have and do happen are my fault. I didn't protect them. I let them down in my depression. I didn't push them hard enough when I was supposed to and too hard when I wasn't.
Then. It was silent.
I thought maybe I had gone too far. I mean what 20 year old really wants to do therapy with his mom?
His gentle voice pierced the darkness as tears welled up in my eyes.
"You see mom, it's like when I was quarterback. There were things that happened beyond my control. Maybe the ball slipped as it left my hand, maybe it was a bad snap, maybe it just wasn't my night. At any rate, I let my team down that play. They would be upset with me but only because they weren't in the position to do my job. I always did the very best with what I had been given. I could either keep dwelling on that play, the moment it messed up, their feelings of letdown and tank the rest of the game or I could apologize to them and move forward to the next play.
Only once did I let it get into my head and Coach Dale pulled me when he saw it happening. I was able to think clearer on the sidelines and was ready to return to the game. But I never gave up.... You have to move on to the next play."
Next play was code with the Lions for "well that screwed up but let's recover and press on..." How many times had I myself yelled that from the sidelines? But here in my own head, in my own mom-ness, I was unable to let things go and move on to the next play in order to salvage the game.
I've never been so thankful for a dark drive home as the tears rolled freely down my face just listening to him. He was willing to meet me where I was, encourage and rebuke me simultaneously, in a way that the two of us had shared for nine years.
Feeling like a failure dissipated as wonderment took its place and I heard those words coming from my son. My son, whom I had raised, telling me to shake off the dust, breathe deep and move on to the next play.
He didn't learn "next play" from all those years of bible study. He didn't learn that having watched his perfectionist mother struggle with her constant feelings of failure. He learned that from a group of godly men who invested in his life to build his character and ability to forgive himself in order to move forward.
To all you mommas, pat the grass, take the few seconds of timeout, dust yourself off, breathe deeply, and get ready for the next play. This game is far from over.
To all you coaches, thank you will never suffice for the investment you made in our sons.
