I think I’ve experienced some kind of motherly right of
passage, something akin to the first day of kindergarten, the first ER visit or
taking your oldest to college.
Last night was Joshua’s last jr. high football game.
Jim had always said, “My son will play football.” The first
toy he bought when we first ever found out I was pregnant was a stuffed
football rattle. Of course, when the first child turned out to be Rebecca, he
saved it for the next kid. And when that beautiful little boy emerged, I said,
“My son will not play football; it’s too dangerous. People get hurt. It’s not
worth it.” And we put off the discussion until he was older. But when he was in
third grade, he played flag football. No biggie. And the next year, he got pads
and played tackle. And the kids were little, and the team was cute. And how
hurt could they really get? And Joshua loved it. He worked hard, and he
excelled. He became a valuable player. Over the years, he and his dad have shared
father/son moments over the game, talking through plays, recapping each event. And
I watched this son and his passion, and I supported it. I didn’t give much more thought to getting
hurt. I gave it to God. This boy, this first-born son, is ALL boy. He plays
football. And I’m proud of him.
So there we were at his last football game of the season.
His last 8th grade game. They’ve had a great season – only lost one
game. Joshua’s played well. He loves to hit; loves to tackle; loves to take the
other team down.
And then I saw the other team. They were huge. I mean
gigantic. At least four of them were bigger than my husband. They looked like
they’d been held back a year. Or two. And then I took a look at our wiry jr.
high team. It was David and Goliath, right there on the field. They started
playing, and our players went down, one by one – Joshua’s best friend – our
star running back – got a concussion. Another kid got a concussion. Someone
else went out. Still, we kept playing. Joshua played well! Recovered the ball,
had two amazing sacks, an awesome run, and his big moment – a touchdown!! The
scores grew. We hung in. They had 50. We were at 18.
In the final quarter, Joshua got the ball and disappeared
under a pile of big, red-and-white Goliaths. And when they all got up, Joshua
was still down. The teams took a knee, and the coaches went out. And the
trainer went out. And time stopped. There was my baby, lying out there on the
field. He rolled in pain. They checked him out. They worked on him. For at
least five minutes, the teams knelt. For
at least five minutes I prayed. The stands were quiet, and my eyes were glued
on the boy in the middle of the field. What a helpless moment. And finally one leg moved. And then the
other. And at the end of eternity, he was up. But they CARRIED him off the
field, legs dangling. I stood to go meet him. My friend and my husband kept me
in the stands. Apparently it’s not acceptable to go rushing to your son if he’s
not been wheeled off the field.
The game continued I suppose, not that I paid too much
attention. (Final score 50-24, I hear.) The other team showed no mercy – with a huge score
differential, they kept their gigantic starters in, still played all the way 'til the end - until the clock ran out, risking even more injury. And the trainer kept working
with Joshua, stretching, turning, checking range of motion. In the end, he was
ok – what he thought was his hip popping, breaking? Was more likely movement of
the sacrum. He is sore today. He moves slowly. If he still struggles in a
couple of days, we will get an x-ray. But he is ok.
I, on the other hand, am somehow more mother, for motherhood
seems to be a series of “letting go’s.” Of relinquishing control. Of realizing
that you are helpless to control their lives, heal their hurts and keep them in
the nest. Of trusting the child of your heart to his Creator and His plan. Of releasing
them - and watching them grow.
