Thanksgiving Lament
It was an auspicious beginning. I crawled out of bed at 3:45, threw a few clothes on, woke up Kurt, our oversleeping son, and squeezed into the van parked perilously close to our other car. We were, as usual, touching the edge of tardiness.
By 5:00 he needed to be at the home of a family who had consented to take him to an important soccer tournament in San Diego. We were sleepy-tired, a little late, and sad that he would miss Thanksgiving with the family.
Our two older children had come in from California the evening before. We enjoyed some pre-Thanksgiving pumpkin pie and a few blessed hours of conversation. The joy of last evening was stabbing me deeply as I contemplated Kurt's absence this afternoon.
We're immensely proud of the success, independence, and strong Christian character of our three children. It's bittersweet to see them grow up and out, but deeply gratifying to observe them making life decisions that make us proud. Being together on Thanksgiving eve made Mom and Dad feel complete in deep and profound ways.
All the more reason to regret our decision to allow Kurt to participate in this California soccer tournament. But we take commitments very seriously. I don't know if it's the coach in me, or the Dad in me, or the ego in me, or what, but I can't bear the idea of quitting. If you join a team, you finish what you start. You show up. You play hurt. You give 100%. If there's a tournament over Thanksgiving, you go.
I still feel guilty for telling my high school wrestling coach, Mr. Rooney, that I could not wrestle an exhibition match. I had nearly killed myself trying to make weight (you don't want to know the unhealthy things I did that afternoon), only to fail to reach the deadline.
I was exhausted, dehydrated, sick, disappointed and depressed when Mr. Rooney came to me and said, "That's okay, Steve. You can wrestle an exhibition match instead."
"No, coach," I said, surprising even myself. "I can't." He asked again. I refused again. I was so dehydrated I could barely stand up without feeling dizzy; the idea of wrestling was ludicrous.
Mr. Rooney didn't know that, of course. But he relented. Years later, I still I felt guilty for letting down my coach.
So the idea of skipping the San Diego tournament never occurred to us. You commit to a team, you do what it takes. Kurt would spend Thanksgiving with another family in San Diego.
I backed out of the garage only to be surprised at a sudden jolt behind me. "Did I leave a trash can in the driveway?" I'd just spent a feverish few days working outdoors trying to prepare our new home's landscape for holiday company. Certainly I'd left something in the way.
If only! What I had done was back into my daughter's brand new 2007 Scion. Her pride and joy, the symbol of graduation and entering the adult work force, only three months old -- crunch! The decorative front bumper was punched by my ten year old Nissan Quest.
Her first car's first dents inflicted by her own Dad! The deepest wounds always seem to come from our family, I suppose, but this seemed a cruel way to begin an already difficult morning.
I walked into my daughter's room and said, "Where are your keys?" "Over there," she said through sleepy eyes. "I'm sorry. Did I park in your way?" (If only she knew!) "Don't worry about it," I said. It was too early to tell her the real story.
The obstruction now removed, we travelled uneventfully to our destination. I exchanged pleasantries with Kurt's surrogate weekend family. I dropped him off and returned home feeling sad and lonely.
Forty-five minutes later I made the final turn toward our house. Suddenly I heard a troubling noise, like the sound of air escaping a balloon. Sure enough, just as I feared, the front tire of my car had blown.
Feeling morose and melancholy, I trudged the remaining distance home. A short night, a missing son, a fender bender, and a flat tire. All before 6 a.m! I know God's got more important things to worry about, but my goodness! Would it be too much to ask for Thanksgiving day to to have a smoother start than this?
By 5:00 he needed to be at the home of a family who had consented to take him to an important soccer tournament in San Diego. We were sleepy-tired, a little late, and sad that he would miss Thanksgiving with the family.
Our two older children had come in from California the evening before. We enjoyed some pre-Thanksgiving pumpkin pie and a few blessed hours of conversation. The joy of last evening was stabbing me deeply as I contemplated Kurt's absence this afternoon.
We're immensely proud of the success, independence, and strong Christian character of our three children. It's bittersweet to see them grow up and out, but deeply gratifying to observe them making life decisions that make us proud. Being together on Thanksgiving eve made Mom and Dad feel complete in deep and profound ways.
All the more reason to regret our decision to allow Kurt to participate in this California soccer tournament. But we take commitments very seriously. I don't know if it's the coach in me, or the Dad in me, or the ego in me, or what, but I can't bear the idea of quitting. If you join a team, you finish what you start. You show up. You play hurt. You give 100%. If there's a tournament over Thanksgiving, you go.
I still feel guilty for telling my high school wrestling coach, Mr. Rooney, that I could not wrestle an exhibition match. I had nearly killed myself trying to make weight (you don't want to know the unhealthy things I did that afternoon), only to fail to reach the deadline.
I was exhausted, dehydrated, sick, disappointed and depressed when Mr. Rooney came to me and said, "That's okay, Steve. You can wrestle an exhibition match instead."
"No, coach," I said, surprising even myself. "I can't." He asked again. I refused again. I was so dehydrated I could barely stand up without feeling dizzy; the idea of wrestling was ludicrous.
Mr. Rooney didn't know that, of course. But he relented. Years later, I still I felt guilty for letting down my coach.
So the idea of skipping the San Diego tournament never occurred to us. You commit to a team, you do what it takes. Kurt would spend Thanksgiving with another family in San Diego.
I backed out of the garage only to be surprised at a sudden jolt behind me. "Did I leave a trash can in the driveway?" I'd just spent a feverish few days working outdoors trying to prepare our new home's landscape for holiday company. Certainly I'd left something in the way.
If only! What I had done was back into my daughter's brand new 2007 Scion. Her pride and joy, the symbol of graduation and entering the adult work force, only three months old -- crunch! The decorative front bumper was punched by my ten year old Nissan Quest.
Her first car's first dents inflicted by her own Dad! The deepest wounds always seem to come from our family, I suppose, but this seemed a cruel way to begin an already difficult morning.
I walked into my daughter's room and said, "Where are your keys?" "Over there," she said through sleepy eyes. "I'm sorry. Did I park in your way?" (If only she knew!) "Don't worry about it," I said. It was too early to tell her the real story.
The obstruction now removed, we travelled uneventfully to our destination. I exchanged pleasantries with Kurt's surrogate weekend family. I dropped him off and returned home feeling sad and lonely.
Forty-five minutes later I made the final turn toward our house. Suddenly I heard a troubling noise, like the sound of air escaping a balloon. Sure enough, just as I feared, the front tire of my car had blown.
Feeling morose and melancholy, I trudged the remaining distance home. A short night, a missing son, a fender bender, and a flat tire. All before 6 a.m! I know God's got more important things to worry about, but my goodness! Would it be too much to ask for Thanksgiving day to to have a smoother start than this?