The front door opened and closed with a bang. “Hi, Mom,” my ten-year-old called. He was home early because it was a minimum day.
I went into the entry hall and gave him a hug. “How was school?”
“Good.” He peeled away from me and grabbed his soccer bag from the closet. He pulled his cleats out and started putting them on.
“What are you doing?”
“I decided I’m reaching my juggling goal today,” he said, matter-of-fact. At the beginning of the soccer season, he set three goals for himself. Juggling the ball twenty times in a row with his feet only (no knees) was the only one he hadn’t yet reached and soccer season was almost over. My husband and I agreed that when he reached all three goals, we’d help him buy the new tent he’d been wanting for over six months.
He tied his laces and stood up. “I’m not taking these cleats off until I get my goal,” he said smiling, determined. He grabbed his soccer ball and ran out to the backyard. I watched him go, hoping he reached 20 juggles quickly. Since it was a minimum day, I could take him to the camping store before my daughter got home at 3:30.
But 3:30 came and went.
Three hours he was in the backyard, trying. Three hours. I kept going out there and checking on him. I brought him water and snacks. Every now and then, I made him stop for a few minutes to rest.
My daughter got home and started her homework. But he stayed outside, juggling. His face was red from the cold and the exercise. His jaw was set. I could tell he was frustrated. Three hours is a long time for a ten-year-old. I went outside and stayed with him, watching from the patio swing, trying to encourage him. I was bundled in a jacket, but my hands and feet were numb.
He got 18 juggles in a row. 18. I held my breath. He tried again. I prayed: Please, God. Help him. I fought the lump in my throat.
17.
17 again.
Then 19.
“Good job!” I screamed, excited. “You almost have it!” He tried again, and again. And again. Then he stopped, folded his hands and closed his eyes. He was whispering. He was praying. I blinked back tears.
16.
15.
He threw the soccer ball across the yard in frustration and turned away from me. I prayed again: fervent, desperate, mom-fierce prayers. I know it’s only soccer, but I could tell by watching him, it was so much more.
He got the ball and started juggling again. It was 4:30 and the sky was getting dark. It was almost dinnertime. “Do you want another snack?” I asked, hoping he would say yes and stop.
“No.” His eyes were fixed on the ball. His juggles went from 15 to 13 to 10.
“Let’s take a break,” I said.
“No.”
“It’s okay to take a break. It doesn’t mean you’re quitting. I think you need to give your muscles a rest.”
“I’m not taking these cleats off until I reach my goal,” he said through clenched teeth. He’d wor
n a patch of mud in the grass where he was practicing. His ankles and knees were splattered with dirt. It was getting colder. And I was torn…
Should I force him to stop? Should I make him quit so he wouldn’t get sick? Or should I let him continue and stay by his side, trying to encourage him?
My stomach hurt because I didn’t know what was best…
What if this is one of those moments that impacts him forever? What if he’ll look back on this and say, I remember that time I tried until 9 at night to reach my soccer goal, and I finally did it. What if I make him stop and that keeps him from reaching 20?
I wavered back and forth, not sure what to do. I could tell by watching him, he was building character. There was a fire in him I’d never seen before. So I decided to let him keep going. My daughter turned on the kitchen light inside the house. The sky got dark.
My son walked over to me. “I need you to take me to the park, Mom. It’s too dark back here. Those lights are better.”
And so we loaded up the car and drove to the park. Under the lights, on the sprawling grass, he started juggling again. I counted out loud… “Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…” The ball dropped. “Good job,” I say, “That was almost it!” His shoulders slumped. He walked over to me…
“Pray, Mom.” And so we prayed, right there in the middle of the park under the lights and the night sky. We prayed hard. He took a deep breath, walked back to where he left his ball, and started again. My heart beat fast each time he got close to twenty. Then, slowly, exhaustion set in. He kicked the ball far across the park and didn’t chase after it.
He hung his head.
I ran over and hugged him. I could feel his discouragement and, more than anything in the entire world, I wanted to take it away. I wanted to make it better. Silent tears ran down my face and I was glad it was dark so he couldnt see them. “Don’t worry; you’re not quitting,” I whispered, “You’re just taking a break. You can pick it right back up tomorrow.”
In the car on the way home, he asked, “Why didn’t God answer my prayers, Mom? I prayed so hard to just get to twenty.”
And this is where all the challenges and roadblocks I’ve faced in my journey and goals as a writer, and all the times in my life that I’ve known discouragement, all weave together into a clear purpose: to comfort my son. And in an instant, I’m thankful for every unanswered prayer I’ve ever had.
“I don’t know why,” I said through the lump in my throat. “But I do know how you feel. And I’m so sorry. I know it hurts when you try really hard to be successful at something and then you feel like you’re not.” He looked at me, hopeful. “Sometimes our prayers aren’t answered when we want them to be, but that just means God has something better ahead that we can’t see yet.”
He nodded.
“You will get your goal,” I promised. “And all the practice you had today will only make you stronger.”
The next day–another minimum day–he got home from school, put his cleats on and ran out to the backyard again.
“You’re going to get it today!” I called after him, trying to sound confident. Hoping he’d get it. Praying. I peeked out the shutters and watched him. He tried, and tried again. I sighed, wanting more than anything for him to be successful.
After a few minutes, I headed upstairs to get some things done.
And about ten minutes later, I heard, “Mom!!!”
My heart leapt. “What?” He ran up the stairs and into the room I was in.
“I did it! I did it! I got 20! I did it!!!!”
I was so happy for him that I could barely talk. We got in the car and went straight to the camping store. And he bought his tent – a big, four person, bright red tent with a rain cover and everything. He couldn’t stop smiling. “All that practice really did pay off,” I told him on the way home.
“Yeah,” he said. “If I didn’t practice for five hours yesterday, there’s no way I could’ve gotten my goal so fast today! And now I have more time to play in my tent!”
Exactly.
I smiled at him,
my son,
who seemed a little taller, a little older, and a little stronger than he did the day before.
Exactly…
- Ch…ch…ch…CHANGES Are Coming in 2017 for TMI - December 27, 2016
- What New Thing Are You Ready to See God Do in Your Life in 2017? - December 26, 2016
- Heaviness and Newness - December 23, 2016
