So much more than just a basketball game.

I'm in a comfortable chair in the coffee shop, Stephen delivered to a frosty field on this early Sunday morning. I volunteered for the early shift, even though sleep was ridiculously short last night. I want the time to sit here to put it all in words, to give thanks, to actually count. It doesn't matter the hour or the weather. I am warm-- basking really--in the afterglow of the nearly Perfect Day that was yesterday. So, I sit here in this familiar chair and I hope I can write without spilling tears all over again. No matter, this chair has seem me cry before.

Friday night, Christian's team won a semi-final game to land itself in the ODACS State Basketball Championship. The rest of the team spent the night in Fredericksburg, but we all hauled it back home because Christian wears many hats during basketball season and two of them are coach of his little brothers' teams. He was up very early to coach 9-12 year-olds through two intense nail biters. Both boys came away victorious, ensuring that the next week will be a whirl of playoff games and unpredictable schedules.

We had a few brief moments at home and then we got back in the van, Granddad riding shotgun, and drove south again. I felt sick the whole way. At first I thought it was just that I'd tried to knit and knitting in the car has the same effect on me as reading. Then I recognized that I was over-the-top anxious about this game, crazy worried about the boy next to me, the one with the heart of gold. The one always seems to just have things harder than everyone else. Please God, please, something good for Christian.

It's been my incessant prayer really, for as long as I can remember. I used to itemize, but somewhere along the way, I just asked for something--anything--that would make him smile. Really, really smile effusive joy. Smile the way he used to when he was a little boy and we could keep his world all safe and quiet, control all the things that are so hard. I want this, worry this, so much. Please God, just something good. This, this day, this would be good. Please. Before we left, I had recognized that Christian had slept in the interim between coaching and heading to his game. He didn't eat with everyone else. I had offered him pretty much everything a refrigerator and pantry can hold. He wanted none of it. Even though he has grown to manly heights, this child still has all the sensitivites he had as a little boy. Food has to be just so. We didn't have time for just so.

In desperation, I had grabbed four pieces of fresh bread from the bread box and warmed them, then threw them on a paper plate. Riding next to him I noticed that he was indeed eating the bread, headphones firmly in place, blocking the rest of the world, just chewing and thinking and listening.

What was going on in that head? How could I climb inside? I remembered the night before, the noise in that place. Noise! Christian's nemesis is noise. We've known this from his infancy. He was the child who cried and fretted through his baptism and the party folllowing. As soon as the last guest left and quiet returned, he was content. I remembered that there, sitting in the midst of the other team's fans Friday night, as the guy behind me kept yelling "Get in front of 24. Just stop 24! If you stop 24, it's easy!"

My son is number 24. All I could do not to turn around and beg the man to please stop yelling. Instead, I remembered 5-year-old Christian in the blazing sun, crumpled in the middle of the soccer field. "I can't do this! I hate this game! All these people yelling! And it's hot! I can't do this. I hate people yelling." And really, he never did play youth soccer again.

 

He wanted basketball. A little more climate controlled. Not necessarily quieter, but all his. He didn't want to be stuck in the middle--between the golden-haired boy four years older who would always get there before him and the boy who has already achieved more than most young athletes dream. He wanted his sport. His own. Funny thing, it's not really his, though. This family began with a first date: State Basketball Championship In Charlottesville thirty years ago. His hand slipped in mine. On the way to forever. Basketball was daddy's game long before soccer. We are, really, a basketball family. And in the winter, we go to four or five games a weekend, cheering for each of them as if the game is that first championship so long ago-- from the biggest, to the very littlest (newsflash: Katie scored SIX baskets last weekend). And Christian coaches. He is the leader, fair and square. His are the eyes those little boys seek when they look for praise or guidance on the court. He is their hero. He is the coach known throughout town for winning, and for never yelling.

We traveled on, getting closer to the game. I wanted to talk to him--to tell him that even if this comes so close and ends in disappointment that there is  much good here. But I couldn't really disturb the bubble he created for himself. Please God, something good for Christian. I noticed that the bread is nearly gone. Bread. These days, bread always brings to mind Eucharisteo. I wondered how I might convey Eucharisteo to Christian in the van, with all these people around. And then, Colleen called. "Hey," comes the sweet, southern drawl of dear friend, "I just wanted you to know that I know that this is so much more than a basketball game and I'm dropping my boys off and then going to church to spend game time in front of the Eucharist."

Eucharisteo. Tell him.

I tapped Christian on the knee after talking with Colleen and told him how she was going to spend the afternoon. A slow smile spread across his face. He was pretty sure no one else had that kind of prayer in his corner. Back to chewing and listening. I took my phone in my hands and sent two more messages--out to dear friends who would pray the blessing of thanks with me. Now, how to give that blessing to Christian now, so that thanksgiving might fill the moments with grace and keep him in the present? Could thanksgiving help him before the whistle even blew?

I sent him a text as he left the car:

Notice all the moments. Really live them. God is in those moments and no matter what there will be moments where you can give thanks. That's where He loves you. In the "Thank God" moments. I'm so, so proud of you. I'm praying you through every moment. There will be glorious ones today!

I could give you a play by play of the game, but honestly, I'd have to have Nicky here to help me remember stats. It was close. Really close. From the first time he held the ball, I prayed. At first, I called upon his saints, his great cloud of witnesses--John Paul II, John Bosco, every saint I could think of with a heart for boys. Then, I remembered that this prayer (something good for Christian) has been a St. Andrew's intention for years. I asked Andrew to pray, too.  Every time he touched the ball, every time he defended, I asked. And every time the basketball went through that hoop and caused the basket to sway with grace, I thanked. I held my fingertips to my chin and signed "thank you." I needed the gesture of the moment.

Thumb frantically spinning that prayer ring, I couldn't keep the prayers straight. That great cloud of witnesses, they were cheering-- but the noise was distracting me. I called to mind a verse sent to me the day before, for an entirely different intention.

For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you. We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives,

{Colossians 1:9}

This boy is the one I held after those begging prayers of cancer. Since the day I heard about him, I have asked God to please, please bless him and protect him. Please, please help know how loved he is. Sweet Jesus, he is named for you. Please, please, bless him with joy. I settled into a rhythm of my own. A simple rhythm. When he held the ball, I begged Bless him. And then, Thank You. He didn't always have that ball, though, and sometimes it was in the hands of the boy who has spent much of this basketball season sleeping on the couch in my basement. Could I bless and thank for him, too? The boy who had no mama or daddy here to pray him through these moments? I could. And I did. And though I doubt I will see that child again, he will forever be in my prayers.

The game played on. Me spinning and blessing and thanking. On and on and on. I briefly tried to remember how I got here, a Catholic mom of nine, sitting on a Saturday in a Baptist church. Christian brought me here. The child who is too shy to order pizza walked into a gym one day a few years ago and asked to play. It was the only place he could play and he wanted to play. The Baptists welcomed him. And I found myself sitting next to the pastor's wife as the mintues ticked on. She saw my mama-heart. She knew how much more than a game this was. And she was praying, too. I was grateful. Grateful for her. Grateful for open arms.

With 2:17 left on the clock, my boy smiled. He smiled a smile I haven't seen in way too long. Not the shy, slow smile we coax from him. A big, wide little boy grin.  He smiled and he leapt and he shouted joy!

"Do you think we're safe now?" asked the pastor's wife. No, not yet. I couldn't smile just yet. This child has been disappointed too many times. Even he believed it now. But not me. Because the thought of him hurting now was more than I could bear. Keep praying. Keep thanking.

The final buzzer. The explosion of happy!

Mike texted Patrick, who was sitting in airport, waiting to hear, no doubt praying his own prayers, remembering his own moments, calling on the saint he knows so well. And he texted Michael, who was heroically following the day's activities via cell phone, while coaching second grade girls. Then he turned to celebrate with me. He found me in a puddle, tears falling faster than I could wipe them away. Not quite sobbing, but close. Little boy, grab that joy. All of it. Grab it and hold it forever. That man, the one whose voice endeared him to me first at a basketball game, pulls me close, and says as his lips brush my ear, "It's his moment. All his. He has his moment. It's good."

He is the State Champion

He is the Tournament Most Valuable Player

His moment.

All his. God knew. He knew that Christian needed a moment that was all his.And He blessed.

Something good for Christian.

~

Counting gifts:

~Chapter 7

~praying friends, who never think it's just a game

 ~Granddad fist bumping Nicky

~Little Maggie, baby daughter of the Athletic Director and of the coach, granddaughter of the pastor, sitting in her grandma's arms, entertaining my little girls. I can watch, really watch, the whole game.

~Delph's dad. Wise words. Heart touched.

~Boy without family to watch. Playing for his team, looking to Christian's father for both nods and admonition.

~Mike. Every play. Every call. Every buzzer. His heart calls his son.

 

~Pastor's wife. Praying, too.

~I look up in the stands to find my dad and Barbara in the moments after the buzzer. Do they know? Do they know how much more than a game this is? My dad is looking-- at me. He knows my heart.

 

~Clean house when we get home; Michael soothes when Mama is worried.

~Little girls who napped on the long ride, wide awake to greet Paddy well past bedtime.

~Patrick and Christian in the kitchen at midnight. Quiet grace.

~All nine children asleep under my roof. All nine children happy.

~Words I whisper to Christian in the morning when I wake him: It really happened. It wasn't a dream. He smiles that big smile into his pillow and sleeps on.

~Something good for Christian.

{photo credit: all photos by Mary Beth except the one of me. My dad took that.}

Remember

Beginning Tuesday, we'll take small steps together towards holy sacrifice. Think about it and share with us.

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual.  Photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week.  A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. If you're inspired to do the same, visit Soulemama to leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

Daybook at February's End

 Outside My Window

Is the busy main street of downtown McLean on a weekday afternoon. Michael is in Florida this week, so I'm back in my soccer driving and Starbuck's writing groove.

I am Listening to

a sweet girl at the table next to mine, trying to impress the socks off an Ivy League alum at a college interivew. They do these interviews at this Starbucks all the time. Very enlightening.

I am Wearing

Jeans, a cotton turtleneck sweater, and Elizabeth deHority cashmere socks in blue.

I am so Grateful for

an amazing week just passed.

I'm Pondering

One more thought on Simplicity: Contemplative simplicity isn't a matter of circumstances; it's a matter of focus.~Ann Voskamp 

{Next week, we take Small Steps, pondering sacrifice.}

I am Reading

through this list of "Best Homeschool Blogs." I've found several new ones there. Good reading.

I am Thinking

so many, many thoughts! My head is awhirl. It's been a week of inspiration and I'm processing. I think that God is mighty and His plans are perfect. I pray that I can walk in His will and truly take to heart the lessons He's allowed in my life in the last year.

I am Creating

washcloths. Lots of them. I'm also helping Katie with her mittens and Mary Beth with her hat. And I'm about to launch into some serious Becky Higgins retro-scrapbooking with a big box of photos in the basement and the three nearly grown boys whose childhoods are held there.

On my iPod

I am listening to Ann's book, One Thousand Gifts, read aloud to me, by her, as I knit. Follow this link to learn how to get a free 14 day trial and one book at Audible.com. If you are new to Audible.com, you can download and listen to Ann's book for free.

Towards a Real Education

Looking into high school co-ops for next year. There are several well-established homeschool co-ops or small schools that allow part-time homeschooler involvement. Several of the girls in Mary Beth's dance school attend them. Unfortunately, most have very exclusive statements of faith--that is they exclude Catholics. It's hard to see her grapple with exclusion.

Towards Rhythm and Beauty

I'm ready for the rhythm of Lent. It's so late this year. Feels strange to mark these late February days in Ordinary Time.

We're having a Kind Conversation about

My sincere apologies to the good folks at Kind Conversation. I promise to check in soon. 

To Live the Liturgy...

pray the Hours. Go to Mass. Amen;-).

I am Hoping and Praying

for Elizabeth deHority. She is constantly on my heart and in my prayers. She needs you now. Please, please pray with me.

Around the House

My big kids did an admirable job of keeping the house from dissolving into disarray while I was away much of last week. We're in a pretty good groove. I really, really, really want to paint. Really. Oh, and the laundry? All caught up. Seriously.

From the Kitchen

It won't be long now: asparagus, strawberries, artichokes. I love to craft spring menus.

I've been really good about being gluten free in the last month and I do see and feel a huge difference. It will only get easier as the weather warms and everything can become a salad.

One of My Favorite Things

Learning to knit. Yes, indeed. Way too much fun. And highly addictive.

Sarah Annie this week

She refuses to answer to Annie any more. Or even Sarah Annie. This could be problematic very soon, because...

A Few Plans for the Week

Patrick comes home on Saturday! He's never, ever called her anything but Annie. Could be a showdown.

Lots of basketball--it's playoff week. We're going to be going and going and going and going.

Lots of work in the rose garden.

Did I mention that Patrick comes home Saturday? Can Hardly Wait!

Picture thoughts:

Who took my little boy and replaced him with a man who has tree trunks for legs?

In this game, the US played Major League Soccer's New England Revolution.

Knitting Lessons

{This is a very long post of blessings and unexpected lessons; if you can stick with me to the end, you are, indeed, a treasure!}

Elizabeth had to two wishes for this "Momcation," her Make-a-Wish trip:  She wanted to go to the Basilica and she wanted to teach Ann and me to knit.

On the morning of the first full day together, Elizabeth is ready to begin. She's not wasting a moment. Time is too precious. Mike and I arrive at the hotel to find Elizabeth with her knitting bag ready for the car. Ann, who will sit in the backseat with Elizabeth, is going to knit on the way to D.C.  We talk a bit and then Elizabeth takes up the needles. I try watch and listen, but turning around in the moving car makes me carsick. Just a couple of miles from the D.C. border, Mike's phone rings. Glancing at the number, he says, apologetically, "I have to take this."

I hear him explain that he's driving and ask to call back. I can tell that his caller has said this call must happen now. We are just a few miles from the border and cell phone usage is prohibited while driving in D.C. He pulls over in front of the Iwo Lima memorial. Then, Mike takes the call he's waiting nearly ten years to take. Meanwhile, Ann's knitting lessons have commenced in the backseat. I try to pay attention, but I can't. Not with him talking about epic things. I have just missed my first knitting lesson.  Jokingly, I beg Ann not to get too far ahead of me.

Call finished, we head over the bridge. This time, it's my phone that chimes. Text message. Sounds urgent. I take a deep breath and send a message in return. I can't attend to the matter today. No computer access and limited cell phone where I'm going. I turn my phone off. We continue on to church.

It is a perfectly beautiful, utterly peaceful day. Perfectly beautiful.

At day's end, Mike has to make a quick trip to his office. The plan is for Ann, Elizabeth, and I to go a coffee shop, have a late afternoon snack, then drop Mike at home and head back to the hotel for dinner and knitting. In the coffee shop, I remember to turn on my phone and I notice that Christian has called me. I remark that Christian never calls; he'd rather starve than pick up a phone and order pizza. Then, I see he's left a voice message. Trying to swallow the panic rising in my throat, I text him: Do you need me? He calls me back. I hear hysterical chaos in the background. I don't remember what I said aloud, but I'm pretty sure it was "Is who bleeding?"

I watch the color drain from Ann's face. And I know what she's thinking.

It is not that tragedy, thank God. But the dog has been hit by a car.

Ann and Elizabeth both affirm what I'm thinking: I need to get home. I miss the evening knitting lesson. Still, I go to sleep with the peace that comes of knowing that I used the day well. That I filled the time the way He wanted.

In the urgent of the dog and the vet and the children, I have nearly forgotten the message I received as we went over the bridge. Mike reminds me early the next morning. Yes, I sigh. I will attend to that just as soon as I get to the hotel. There is internet there. I'll make some quick calls.

I am determined not to let anything rob me of the peace I desire or the time I've committed to Ann and Elizabeth. At the last minute, as I'm heading out the door, I scoop Karoline into the car to come along for the day. Best decision ever.

I get countless texts and phone calls on the way to hotel. Apparently, this matter really is urgent and I'm already a day late. I'm also late to the hotel.

When we arrive, Ann shrieks with glee and Elizabeth's face lights up with joy at the sight of my child. Ann's finished washcloth heralds the news that she is knitting. I am woefully behind on the second mission of the trip. I explain the calls I need to make and apologize profusely. "It's all good," Ann reassures. I pray she's right. I closet myself in the bedroom while Elizabeth teaches Karoline to knit. Three long phone calls later, and I need internet access. In this hotel, that takes some coaxing. Elizabeth takes fifty or so holy cards and tells Karoline the stories behind them all. Ann begins to work on her sweater.

As I finally read the document online, my inbox dings. Column deadline moved up because of the Monday holiday. It's due tomorrow, very early.

Several times, I ask Ann and Elizabeth, why now? These are phone calls we've waited months, even years to receive. God knows what is planned for these days. Why now?

Elizabeth and Karoline and I leave for Mass. After Mass, I leave Karoline and Elizabeth with Ann and drive to pick up lunch. Karoline finishes her knitting, one tiny little baby washcloth. Elizabeth gathers her close and tells her all about her own children. I talk to Mike about the document on the way to get carryout, fighting tears now. I'm missing it all. Lunch in hand, I get another text. I sit in the parking lot and sob.

After lunch, one more email. And now, I need a printer and a fax machine. I leave that room, the one I've imagined all these weeks, the one where I stashed tea and honey and muffins. The one where I carefully arranged a bouquet of tulips. I'm not filling time. It's slipping through my fingers.

The manager in the hotel office must read the despair on my face. He is ever so helpful. Business done at last, I run back to the room. I begin knitting at 3:30. At 4:00, Mary Beth calls to tell me that ballet is unexpectedly early that day. We pack it all up and head back to my house.

There, Elizabeth sits and teaches Katie to knit.

Ann and Karoline work on their own project, exuberantly stamping and sealing envelopes with Ann's signed bookplates, using Karoline's tiny washlcoth to dampen the glue. Late afternoon light fills my home. I make dinner and tend a dozen little details. I do not knit.

I am struck by the irony that I'm making such poor, hasty decisions regarding sacred time while face to face with the woman who wrote "There are no emergencies. Only amateurs hurry."

I am an amateur.

I know that I have conceded to the tyranny of the urgent, have lost the opportunity to do the important. And I discover how unimportant the urgent really is.

Knitters tell me that knitting slows a woman, brings calm to her soul, makes her a better listener. Watching Elizabeth knit with my children I see that this is all true. She has a peace about her, even in the midst of so much suffering. It brings her such joy to teach her art to these sweet, young girls. And I am struck with overwhelming sadness. Time I will never have again.

Dinner is a bit of a wild ride. Who raised these noisy children who are bouncy all over the place? Why are they exceptionaly rowdy tonight? I strain to hear over the din. Still, I do listen. And I do share. And God blesses. These guests at my table? All grace.

It's nighttime now. Soon, I will drive Ann and Elizabeth back to the hotel. I want to stay. To sit with them and talk and drink tea and learn to knit. But I know that my babies need me to put them to sleep on this night and I know that I have promised that column to my editor before the business day begins tomorrow. I say goodnight and drive away.

At home, Sarah Annie nurses to sleep readily and Karoline is asleep before I have a chance to go tuck her in. Even my night owl husband turns off the light and breathes deeply of this night's peace. He has used his time well. He has blessed. I write my column. It takes me less than half an hour. The computer clicks closed. Sleep will not come.

I creep downstairs to a living room that was full of yarn and paper and creative spirit just a few hours earlier. I pick up my pitiful green cotton triangle. And I can't remember. I try and try and try, but I cannot remember what comes next.

Instead, I write. I try to redeem the time by remembering the day that was so peaceful, the day when I said no to the urgent and listened instead to the whisper of the sacred. I try to knit with words.

Morning comes early and Mike and I leave for the airport.  Ann and Elizabeth are waiting for us outside. It's over. Elizabeth has resolved not to cry. And she doesn't. Ann and me?  Not so much.

Goodbyes are said.

After a brief stop at the bagel store on the way home, I gather my children and we seize this beautiful day and go to Bull Run, to the place where I force away winter and hope is born anew every single spring. We are met there by Ginny, who listens patiently to my whole story, as we watch our little girls play and our boys hold war councils build a teepee.

We talk about Ginny's knitting ministry and the ungrateful women with bad attitudes. I shudder as I consider my own sins. I cannot bear to look at this green triangle of cotton that is the knitting I did not learn. But I don't want to rip it apart. She takes it in her capable hands and binds it off for me. Tangible notes from lessons learned.

Katie tells her excitedly about the mittens Elizabeth has assured her she can knit. Ginny is skeptical. Katie has brought along her yarn. "Mrs. deHority says that real knitters bring their projects everywhere they go." She shows Ginny the darling book Elizabeth has given her and the pattern and confesses that she doesn't know how to begin. Ginny takes those four needles and explains to Katie how knitting on three needles works, all the while casting on stitches for her. Katie beams with gratitude. What a gift she has been given by these two women! I am counting now, actually counting gifts.

The children play--so glad for the early taste of spring--and Ginny tells me how knitting can help push past that compulsive perfectionism. I can't quite wrap my brain around it, but I do believe her.

And I leave the woods very sure that God is offering me this gift. That Elizabeth is still offering me this gift.

I have to learn to knit.

By Friday night, Katie has knit eight rounds and she is eager to learn to purl. I'm nearly frantic to help her, making a mental note of knitters I know. And it hits me. These are people who have been asking for months to get together, to visit, to slow down, to take time.

To take time in our hands and bless it with beauty.

Maybe this is what He's telling me?

At home, in the last rays of sunlight, I take out all the things Elizabeth has left behind for me. All the things I couldn't quite savor or appreciate while in the grip of the urgent tyrant. There is a binder of patterns, with a pocket in front. Elizabeth's 12-year-old son Brian has assembled these binders for us.

In the pocket are knitting tools, most of which I'm sure are important, but I have no idea what their purpose is yet. And there are exquisite needles, given to us by the woman who invented them. I have a growing sense of the value of these treasures.

And the yarn? Beautiful, beautiful yarn! So many people have given so generously to make this happen. I promise them, in that moment, that I will learn to knit. And I will do it now, because I want Elizabeth to see that she has given me the gift she intended. I will do it now, because the unintended gift is the invaluable lesson of knowing that some things are worth slowing for. I pray--a more fervent prayer than ever before prayed--that I will recognize the important and never again lose time to the tyrant that is urgency.

The next day. I begin again. Elizabeth sends me an email to get me started. I choose yarn that reminds me of The Hat. Gosh, the praying women with needles who have blessed me! Katie reminds me how to increase. I struggle through the first half, trying hard not to obsess over the obvious flaws. I hear Elizabeth telling me to move past them, to let go, and I see Ann, peacefully working extraordinarily beautiful yarn on her own gifted needles, nodding in recognition. I'm moving on. I'm persevering. And, I guess, I'm knitting. I recognize that I have missed Elizabeth sitting next to me. I know that she would have seen mistakes I'm making and corrected them as they happened. Instead, I am learning the hard way. It's always like that, isn't it? If we step out of God's will and we repent, He doesn't leave us stranded there, but we have chosen the hard way.

It's harder, but it's not too late. He redeems time.

Late that night, Mary Beth sits beside me. She picks up needles, too. Knit. Purl. The two of us together. God bless Elizabeth deHority.

Sunday morning, before even getting out of bed. I pick up my pink and white stitches again. I count. Enough, I think to begin to decrease. It goes so well! I have a rhythm. My stitches look so much better. It figures. In art, as in life, all is more beautiful and ordered when I decrease.

I am ready to finish before my children even awaken.

One small square.

I have said over and over that I plan to make at least a dozen washcloths before I move on to touch the beautiful yarn. I will knit and purl. I will cast on and bind off. I want to have some confidence and some rhythm. But, I will not miss the moment, either. I will not delay because I cannot achieve the perfection no one demands of me but me. Elizabeth has given me yarn intended for a shrug for Sarah Annie.

For this spring.

In time for the bluebells.

I only have eleven washcloths to go. And then, by the grace of God, I will knit that sweater.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to Ann's book, One Thousand Gifts, read aloud to me, by her, as I knit those remaining washcloths. Follow this link to learn how to get a free 14 day trial and one book at Audible.com. If you are new to Audible.com, you can download and listen to Ann's book for free.

For more (and no doubt shorter) Yarn Along tales, visit Ginny.