By Linda Salazar “Mommy, I think you like those toys more than we do,” I remember saying to my mom as we shopped at a discount store. The way she would inspect each toy, carefully read through each book, count puzzle pieces, and put together toy sets (discount items tend to miss pieces), I was sure she loved those toys every bit as much as we kids did. She was always on the lookout for sales so she and my hardworking father could put presents under the Christmas tree for us kids. But my parents’ giving wasn’t limited to things. Sometimes their gifts were “hands on,” like when they took us to a park to play a favorite game together, or trekked by our sides through the woods, or took us to visit some historical site. Looking back I can clearly see that my parents didn’t love the toys and all the rest as much as I thought they did—they just loved giving. They were always giving. Whether it was their time and attention, help with our schoolwork or projects, or lending a listening ear, they never ceased to give from their hearts. As Christmas approaches, I can’t help but think back and marvel at those simple, love-filled gifts. The Christmas presents themselves I hardly remember, but Mom and Dad’s enthusiastic love for giving I will never forget! Modern marketers have found so many holidays to celebrate with gift giving, and they come around so fast that it’s sometimes hard to remember which one we’re shopping for or why. But stop for a moment, won’t you, and recall the most memorable gifts you have ever received and why you still hold them dear. Were they the things you could see and hold, or the love those gifts were wrapped in? Courtesy of Activated Magazine.
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By Horace Edwards
In Brooklyn, New York, Shush is a school that caters to learning-disabled children. Some children remain in Shush for their entire school career, while others can be mainstreamed into conventional schools. At a Shush fundraising dinner, the father of a Shush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, “Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God’s perfection?” The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father’s anguish, and stilled by the piercing query. “I believe,” the father answered, “that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that He seeks is in the way people react to this child.” He then told the following story about his son: One afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys Shaya knew were playing baseball. Shaya asked, “Do you think they will let me play?” Shaya’s father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya’s father understood that if his son was chosen to play, it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging. Shaya’s father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said, “We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning.” Shaya’s father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shaya’s team scored again, and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shaya was given the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However, as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps closer to home plate and lobbed the ball in softly so Shaya would at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came in, and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya’s teammates came up to Shaya and together they held the bat and faced the pitcher, waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher took a few more steps forward and tossed the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his teammate swung at the bat and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman. Everyone started yelling, “Shaya, run to first! Run to first!” Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder had the ball. Shaya kept running. The right fielder could have thrown the ball to the second baseman, who would have tagged Shaya out, but the right fielder understood the pitcher’s intentions and threw the ball high and far over the third baseman’s head. Everyone yelled, “Run to second, run to second!” Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached second base, the opposing shortstop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, “Run to third!” As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, “Shaya, run home!” Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate, and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders. Shaya was the hero. He had just hit a grand slam home run and won the game for his team. “That day,” said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, “those 18 boys reached their level of God’s perfection.” Abbie Blair was a social worker back in the 1960s. On one occasion, she set up an adoption that she will never, ever forget. Let Abbie tell the story.
I remember the first time I saw Freddie. His foster mother had brought him to the adoption agency where I work, so I could meet him and help find adoptive parents for him. He was standing in a playpen and gave me a toothy grin. What a beautiful baby, I thought. His foster mother gathered him into her arms. Will you be able to find a family for Freddie? Then I saw it. Freddie had been born without arms. He’s so smart. He’s only ten months old, and already he walks and talks. She kissed him. Say ‘book’ for Mrs. Blair. Freddie grinned at me and hid his head on his foster mother’s shoulder. Now, Freddie, don’t act that way, she said. He’s really very friendly, she added. Such a good, good boy. Freddie reminded me of my own son when he was that age, the same thick dark curls, the same brown eyes. You won’t forget him, Mrs. Blair? You will try? I won’t forget. I went upstairs and got out my latest copy of the Hard-to-Place list. Freddie is a ten-month-old white Protestant boy of English and French background. He has brown eyes, dark-brown hair and fair skin. Freddie was born without arms, but is otherwise in good health. His foster mother feels he is showing signs of superior mentality, and he is already walking and saying a few words. Freddie is a warm, affectionate child who has been surrendered by his natural mother and is ready for adoption. He’s ready, I thought. But who is ready for him? It was ten o’clock on a lovely late-summer morning, and the agency was full of couples—couples having interviews, couples meeting babies, families being born. These couples nearly always have the same dream: They want a child as much like themselves as possible, as young as possible, and—most important—a child with no medical problems. If he develops a problem after we get him, they say, that is a risk we’ll take, just like any other parents. But to pick a baby who already has a problem—that’s too much. And who can blame them? I wasn’t alone in looking for parents for Freddie. Any of the caseworkers meeting a new couple started with a hope: Maybe they were for Freddie. But summer slipped into fall, and Freddie was with us for his first birthday. Freddie is so-o-o big, said Freddie, laughing. So-o-o big. And then I found them. It started out as it always does—an impersonal record in my box, a new case, a new Home Study, two people who wanted a child. They were Frances and Edwin Pearson. She was 41. He was 45. She was a housewife. He was a truck driver. I went to see them. They lived in a tiny white frame house in a big yard full of sun and old trees. They greeted me together at the door, eager and scared to death. Mrs. Pearson produced steaming coffee and oven-warm cookies. They sat before me on the sofa, close together, holding hands. After a moment, Mrs. Pearson began: Today is our wedding anniversary. Eighteen years. Good years. Mr. Pearson looked at his wife. Except Yes, she said. Except. Always the ‘except.’ She looked around the immaculate room. It’s too neat, she said. You know? I thought of my own living room with my three children. Teenagers now. Yes, I said. I know. Perhaps we’re too old? I smiled. I don’t think so, I said. We don’t either. You always think it will be this month, and then next month, Mr. Pearson said. Examinations. Tests. All kinds of things. Over and over. But nothing ever happened. You just go on hoping and hoping, and time keeps slipping by. We’ve tried to adopt before this, Mr. Pearson said. One agency told us our apartment was too small, so we got this house. Then another agency said I didn’t make enough money. We had decided that was it, but this friend told us about you, and we decided to make one last try. I’m glad, I said. Mrs. Pearson glanced at her husband proudly. Can we choose at all? she asked. A boy for my husband? We’ll try for a boy, I said. What kind of boy? Mrs. Pearson laughed. How many kinds are there? Just a boy. My husband is very athletic. He played football in high school—basketball, too, and track. He would be good for a boy. Mr. Pearson looked at me. I know you can’t tell exactly, he said, but can you give us any idea how soon? We’ve waited so long. I hesitated. There is always this question. Next summer maybe, said Mrs. Pearson. We could take him to the beach. That long? Mr. Pearson said. Don’t you have anyone at all? There must be a little boy somewhere. Of course, he went on after a pause, we can’t give him as much as other people. We haven’t a lot of money saved up. We’ve got a lot of love, his wife said. We’ve saved up a lot of that. Well, I said cautiously, there is a little boy. He is 13 months old. Oh, Mrs. Pearson said, just a beautiful age. I have a picture of him, I said, reaching for my purse. I handed them Freddie’s picture. He’s a wonderful little boy, I said. But he was born without arms. They studied the picture in silence. He looked at her. What do you think, Fran? Kickball, Mrs. Pearson said, You could teach him kickball. Athletics are not so important, Mr. Pearson said. He can learn to use his head. Arms he can do without. A head, never. He can go to college. We’ll save for it. A boy is a boy, Mrs. Pearson insisted. He needs to play. You can teach him. I’ll teach him. Arms aren’t everything. Maybe we can get him some. They had forgotten me. But maybe Mr. Pearson was right, I thought. Maybe sometime Freddie could be fitted with artificial arms. He did have nubs where arms should be. Then you might like to see him? They looked up. When could we have him? You think you might want him? Mrs. Pearson looked at me. Might? she said. Might? We want him, her husband said. Mrs. Pearson went back to the picture. You’ve been waiting for us, she said. Haven’t you? His name is Freddie, I said, but you can change it. No, said Mr. Pearson. Frederick Pearson—it’s good together. And that was it. There were formalities, of course, and by the time we set the day Christmas lights were strung across city streets and wreaths were hung everywhere. I met the Pearsons in the waiting room. There was a little snow on both of them. Your son’s here already, I told them. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll bring him to you. I’ve got butterflies, Mrs. Pearson announced. Suppose he doesn’t like us? I put my hand on her arm. I’ll get him, I said. Freddie’s foster mother had dressed him in a new white suit, with a sprig of green holly and red berries embroidered on the collar. His hair shone, a mop of dark curls. Going home, Freddie said to me, smiling, as his foster mother put him in my arms. I told him that, she said. I told him he was going to his new home. She kissed him, and her eyes were wet. Goodbye, dear. Be a good boy. Good boy, said Freddie cheerfully. Going home. I carried him to the little room where the Pearsons were waiting. When I got there, I put him on his feet and opened the door. Merry Christmas, I said. Freddie stood uncertainly, rocking a little, gazing intently at the two people before him. They drank him in. Mr. Pearson knelt on one knee. Freddie, he said, come here. Come to Daddy. Freddie looked back at me for a moment. Then, turning, he walked slowly toward them. They reached out their arms and gathered him in. We all want to be loved, to have our place, to find open arms greeting us. One of the great difficulties, of course, is that so much depends on our desirability. If we look good, if we do what we’re supposed to do, if we meet someone’s expectations, if, if, if, then maybe they’ll love us. But there is a unique kind of love. There is an as is kind of love that says we don’t have to look good. We don’t have to say the right things. We don’t have to be in the right places. We don’t have to have the right money or power. Rather, we can be loved for just being ourselves. Abbie Blair’s story is courtesy of Reader’s Digest. Image courtesy of David Castillo Dominici at FreeDigitalPhotos.net Children are to respect and obey their parents.
Pray for God’s guidance and help in raising your children.
Treat children gently and in love.
Patience, mercy, and reasoning are the most effective.
Parents are responsible to both teach and set a good example for their children.
Parents are responsible to correct their children when necessary.
Godly parenting will guide children all through life.
Based on an article from Activated magazine. Image courtesy of photostock/freedigitalimages.net By E.S. Almost anyone’s list of “People Who Have Influenced My Life” includes at least one teacher. What kind of teachers are these?-The kind who use their talents to help develop others’ talents; the kind who strive to shape not just the mind but the heart. For me, it was a teacher we students came to affectionately call Auntie Marina. Auntie Marina was level-headed and stricter than most of our other teachers and caretakers, firm in her sense of right and wrong, and at first we kids grumbled about that. Before long, however, we learned to trust her because we sensed that she cared about what kind of people we would become. We felt secure with Auntie Marina because she clearly defined our boundaries. While Auntie Marina set limits and enforced the rules, she demonstrated equal amounts of positiveness and love, and she also had an appropriate sense of fun. School with her wasn’t limited to worksheets and textbooks. She took us on excursions and trips to the park, and shared her artistic talent in order to get us interested in arts and crafts. She also had a knack for making each of us feel special, and one way she did this was by speaking positively about us to others when we were within earshot. I can still recall the pride I felt upon overhearing her tell another teacher how well I was doing in spelling. It was satisfying to know that my efforts had not gone unnoticed. Auntie Marina’s care and love extended beyond the school years. For quite some time after our family moved to Taiwan, she sent me notes and cards. Ten years later, I still have several of them. When I reread one of those notes recently, I marveled at the concern and interest she had shown in corresponding with an eight-year-old: “Yesterday I came across your picture as I was preparing a photo album of ‘the children in my life’-those I’ve cared for and taught over the years-and I was reminded of how much I love you, my dear young friend.” On my ninth birthday she wrote: “A very happy birthday to you. I pray that it will be a wonderful, special day for you, and a great new year of your life, full of good surprises and love-filled experiences. I’m happy to know you!” On June 9, 2005, after a prolonged struggle with cancer, Auntie Marina passed away. I know I am only one of many who are better for having experienced her love, which she always reminded us was God’s love poured through her. Courtesy of Activated magazine. By Jessica Roberts It’s the end of a long day of caring for sick children. No, not my own. They belong to a couple whose job often calls them away to tend to others’ needs at the sacrifice of some of their time together as a family. I am the children’s teacher, and I usually enjoy being a substitute parent, but not this week. “I’m feeling overtired, run down, and stressed,” I grumble. “I’m way behind on the dishes and laundry, and I’m missing a beach trip with my friends to instead take care of a bunch of coughing, sniffling, whiny kids. The kids are having their midday nap, and my day still stretches before me. I haven’t had enough sleep or fresh air for days now. I’m not meant do this. I’m not their mother. Mothers have the patience, the selflessness, the unconditional love for their children to put up with all this! Not me. These kids are driving me crazy!” A creak on the stairs tells me somebody’s awake. It’s two-year-old Susy. “What do you need, Susana?” She pauses for half a second, then runs to me, throws her little arms around my neck, and whispers, “I love you!” Then she turns and runs back to bed. I hear four-year-old Martin stirring, so I go to check on him. He opens one eye and mumbles sleepily, “You’re the bestest teacher ever!” Something about the way he smiles when he says that… I think about their pure-hearted love and how they’ve adopted me. I remember all the laughs, the hugs, the discoveries we’ve shared. Suddenly I’m not so tired anymore. I remember what Jesus said about loving the little people, “Inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me” (Matthew 25:40). We’re going to have our best day yet! I’m sure there is a way to build a three-ring circus in the sick room. And when they reach that tired, grumpy hour before dinner, I’ll just shoot up a prayer and ask for some of the Lord’s unconditional love. And I’ll thank God for the blessing of having these kids to care for. © The Family International
By Tomoko Matsuoka I wouldn’t have used this color in the wildest color scheme-a garish yellow that takes on a greenish tint when the light strikes it just right. But here it is, in sharp contrast to the muted red cover of my diary, a child’s shiny yellow rose sticker. Of all of the gifts I have ever received, I have treasured this one more than most. Thinking back, I can’t remember what my little sister had said that had gotten me in such a tizzy. All I remember is that she had been complaining, and I had lectured her severely. I hadn’t gone so far as enumerating every woe that the least fortunate child in the world might be experiencing at that very moment, but I had come close. After demanding an apology, I turned back to my book. A few quiet moments had passed when I heard rustling. I refused to look up. I wanted my little sister to feel the full effect of my righteous exasperation. Let her stew, I thought. The rustling continued. I willed myself to stay put, but I couldn’t help wondering what was absorbing her so completely. Another few moments passed, and then the patter of footsteps came up behind me. They stopped. Silence. I refused to look up from my book, but from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of her hand pushing an envelope onto the desk next to me. She turned and ran from the room. Curious, I flipped open the envelope. Something impossibly yellow tumbled onto my lap. It was a rose sticker. I flipped it over, and there in a five-year-old’s handwriting were the words, “I’m sorry. I love you.” In a preschooler’s barter economy, stickers are precious. And this was no ordinary sticker. Considering that to a child’s way of thinking, bigger is better, the brighter the better, and shiny is best of all, this big shiny rose sticker that had fallen into my lap had undoubtedly been the prize of her collection. I sat stunned for a moment at her boundless ability to love me despite my ornery self-centeredness. I found her, hugged her, and told her I was sorry. © The Family International. When I was growing up, I knew a family of six brothers and sisters. I was impressed by them because they were so unconcerned about being part of the “in group” or wearing the latest style; to me they seemed secure and unafraid of failure. Each of the six had his or her own personality, but all possessed one similar quality, a quality that I grew to greatly admire. It was a certain peace, a security or naturalness—in short, it was confidence. This confidence wasn’t from individual brilliance, athletic ability, or good looks—they were actually pretty average in each of those categories-so I was interested in where it came from. One day an unexpected opportunity came to discover the true source of their confidence. The family moved into a house just across the block from ours. Now, instead of only seeing them at school, I saw them in my neighborhood, and the secret was revealed! Within their home, acceptance and trust were generously shared between parents and children, and that inspired confidence in each person. It’s no wonder that confidence would spring from a trusting and accepting environment. Interestingly, the root word of confidence is confide. In order to confide in someone, there has to be trust. When two people share a mutual trust and acceptance of each other, the result is confidence—confidence in the other person and confidence in oneself. — Deepa Daniels The ultimate safety net Many children simply need a firm footing of love and acceptance by their parents. This foundation of love provides a cushion of protection and security around them that will help keep them from danger and bad influences, such as drugs or alcohol, or even the pain of rejection by their friends. Your love and acceptance will provide a safety net of protection at such times. If they know that you will not reject them, even for their mistakes or foolish actions, they will come to you and there will be the bond that you desire. Children need to know that you will always love them no matter what they do, that nothing will ever take your love away. They must know that they can always talk to you; that even though you may not agree, you may not see eye to eye, you may even think that they’ve done something that is very wrong or harmful, still you are always their parent. You will always love them and they can always come to you. Even if all hell would break loose, your child would know that they will always have your love. — “Parenteening”, by Derek and Michelle Brooks. - "This is the Confidence" excerpted from http://just1thing.com/podcast/2011/6/15/this-is-the-confidence.html
- "Parenteening" © Aurora Productions. Before you have children, it’s common for many to have high ideals of what kind of parent you want to be, how you want to raise your children, and what goals you want to shoot for. It isn’t long, though, before these expectations are popped by reality. You realize pretty quickly that you can’t be everything for your child, that it’s impossible to be perfect and live up to all the expectations you’d laid out for yourself, that it’s unrealistic to think you’re never going to fail. Forget about perfection. You’re never going to attain it. “Perfect” doesn’t factor into parenthood. So instead of striving to be a perfect parent, which you’ll never be, enjoy being a parent who’s loving, fun, happy, humble, concerned, prayerful, and human. You can love your children to pieces, even if your room is untidy. You can have fun, even if you have baskets of laundry to put away. You can be happy, even if your child is having behavioral problems. You can be humble enough to ask for the help of others, and humble enough to admit that you can’t do everything. Kids love parents who are natural. No child wants a parent who is stuffy, rigid, and a perfectionist. Children enjoy being with those who are fun, and who do interesting stuff with them—and, of course, with those who love them. So be that type of parent. Make your child’s life full of interest, variety, and fun. Everything you will ever teach your child will be better and more easily learned when you have forsaken unrealistic expectations—both for yourself and for your child. Teach your children the thrill of learning. Allow them the rush of exploration. Make room for them to experiment, even if it means that they will sometimes fail. That’s part of growing up. Your job as a parent is to be a guide, mentor, and counselor, and also to lead and help guide and direct them within the choices that they make. Enjoy being a parent. Enjoy your children. Laugh when they laugh. Sing when they sing. Feel their hurts and sorrows with them. Your children will learn to love life if you show them how to. They will learn motivation rather than perfection, if that’s the quality you manifest. This is not something that can be learned in a textbook. If they see it in you, they will want what you have. § Successful parents strive to be the person they want their children to become. There are no formulas for parents. You can’t “program” children like a computer and be guaranteed of the result. But children are great observers and imitators. They watch, listen, and absorb values and habits from the people who have the greatest influence on them—their parents. So successful parents resolve that they will set the best example they can for their children. § Successful parents enjoy being parents. They enjoy parenting not because it’s easy or instantly rewarding, but because of the sheer joy and privilege of cooperating with God in shaping another unique and precious life. Any parent of grown children will tell you “they grow up so quickly.” Successful parents remind themselves of that and try to savor every day with their children. They immerse themselves in their children as much as possible and just enjoy them—even the days of dirty diapers, illness, and disappointments. They don’t just love their children, they like them and look forward to spending time with them. § Successful parents don’t expect perfection, either from themselves or their children. Parenting is an art, not a science. Successful parents understand that, like themselves, their children aren’t perfect either. This frees them to love their children unreservedly. § Successful parents don’t fear occasional failures. They understand that mistakes are a normal, even healthy, part of parenting. They make the best decisions they can, and when they’re wrong, they learn from their mistakes and try to do better the next time. § Successful parents don’t expect to have smooth sailing. Children have their own opinions, personalities, and preferences. Inevitably, they cause us to say, “Where did that come from?” or “What were you thinking?” Our responsibility to provide them with limits and guidance will sometimes clash with their growing desire for independence. Successful parents aren’t surprised by difficulties and conflicts; they expect them. But successful parents understand that their responsibility to their children is not to always please them or make them happy—it’s to make the hard decisions that will be for their best in the long run. § Successful parents don’t go it alone. No one has the experience or answers to every parenting challenge. Successful parents aren’t reluctant to seek out the wisdom of others. They know that, at the end of the day, the decision is theirs, but before they get there, there is plenty of wisdom along the way waiting to help them. § Successful parents try harder. They face the same pressures we all do—demanding jobs, spouses, and children who need them. But they live by this rule: “You get back what you put in.” They have a clear sense of priority for their family and are willing to put in the time to achieve it. They give more than the “average parent” so their children will be more than just “average children.” These parents work at nurturing and developing themselves to be the best parents they can be. (Richard Patterson, Jr. Confident Parenting in Challenging Times. Tekna Books. 1999) Photo copyright (c) 123RF Stock Photos I was watching some little kids play soccer. These kids were only five or six years old, but they were playing a real game, a serious game. Two teams, complete with coaches, uniforms, and parents. I didn’t know any of them, so I was able to enjoy the game without the distraction of being anxious about winning or losing; I only wished the parents and coaches could have done the same. The teams were pretty evenly matched. I will just call them Team One and Team Two. Nobody scored in the first period. The kids were hilarious. They were clumsy and earnest as only children can be. They fell over their own feet, stumbled over the ball, kicked at the ball and missed it, but they didn’t seem to care.—They were having fun! In the second period, the Team One coach pulled out what must have been his first team players and put in the scrubs, with the exception of his best player, who he left at goalie. The game took a dramatic turn. I guess winning is important even when you are five years old, because the Team Two coach left his best players in, and the Team One scrubs were just no match for them. Team Two swarmed around the little guy at goalie. He was an outstanding athlete for five, but he was no match for three or four who were equally as good. Team Two began to score. The lone goalie gave it his all, recklessly throwing his body in front of incoming balls, trying valiantly to stop them. Team Two scored two quick points in succession. It infuriated the young boy. He became a raging maniac, shouting, running, and diving. With all the stamina he could muster, he finally was able to cover one of the boys as he approached the goal. But that boy kicked the ball to another boy twenty feet away, and by the time the young goalie repositioned himself, it was too late. They scored a third goal. I soon learned who the goalie’s parents were. They were nice, decent-looking people. I could tell that his dad had just come from the office, tie and all. They yelled encouragement to their son. I became totally absorbed, watching the boy on the field and his parents on the sideline. After the third goal the little kid changed. He could see it was no use; he couldn’t stop them. He didn’t quit, but he became quietly desperate. Futility was written all over his face. His father changed too. He had been urging his son to try harder, yelling advice and encouragement. But then he changed; he became anxious. He tried to say that it was okay to hang in there. He grieved for the pain his son was feeling. After the fourth goal, I knew what was going to happen. I’ve seen it before. The little boy needed help so badly, and there was no help to be had. He retrieved the ball from the net and handed it to the referee, and then he cried. He just stood there while huge tears rolled down both cheeks. He went to his knees, and then I saw his father start onto the field. His wife clutched his wrist and said, “Jim, don’t. You’ll embarrass him." But the boy’s father tore loose from her and ran onto the field. He wasn’t supposed to, for the game was still in progress. Suit, tie, dress shoes and all, he charged onto the field and he picked up his son so everybody would know that this was his boy. And he hugged him and kissed him and cried with him! I have never been so proud of any man in my life. He carried him off the field, and when they got close to the sidelines I heard him say, “Son, I’m so proud of you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my son." "Daddy,” the boy sobbed, "I couldn’t stop them. I tried, Daddy, I tried and tried and they scored on me." "Scotty, it doesn’t matter how many times they score on you. You’re my son, and I’m proud of you. I want you to go back out there and finish the game. I know you want to quit, but you can’t. And son, you’re going to get scored on again, but it doesn’t matter. Go on, now.” It made a difference.—I could tell it did. When you’re all alone, you’re getting scored on, and you can’t stop them, it means a lot to know that it doesn’t matter to those who love you. The little guy ran back on to the field. Team Two scored two more times, but it was okay. |
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