So, I've decided to be completely honest. To write about my family, my friends, my new life. Not so much for others to benefit, but to help me remember and understand. Because writing helps me see clearly.
Jonathan has decided to play Upward basketball again this year, and for me, that's a little scary. You see, Dad played more than softball, he also golfed and was fantastic at basketball because he was fast. Although teaching and coaching are my passion, I'm new at it. Dad was supposed to teach Jonathan to play. He was supposed to help him get over whining and get better. Pity party alert.
So Jonathan and I headed outside to do some dribbling drills. He did the first one perfectly because it required quick hands. The second one, I asked him to dribble a figure eight in and around his legs. "I can't do it!" He whined. "I'm hor-wible at this." I smile at him and tell him he has to practice to get better. "Humph" was his reply. So, we move on to a shooting game called "Around the World" where he had to shoot at different places. And if he missed, he had to go back. Well, he missed. "This is no fair! You're cheating!" I roll my eyes, losing patience. We continue with practice which consists of him complaining and me being less than encouraging. The fact that I would laugh and tell him to get up when he yelled over a "broken ankle" and a "hurt finger" didn't help the matter.
Finally, I lost it. "I don't have to be out here helping you, but I am. So quite whining! Toughen up!" I stormed inside. A mini sop-opera had ensued.
I peaked outside a while later to find Jonathan against the fence crying. I toke a deep breath and went to talk to him. I ask him why he is crying, but he doesn't know. I do. It's the same reason I used to cry in sports (and occasionally still do). He wants to be perfect, is hurt, and misses the real coach. I break. I tell him I'm not Daddy, but I'm trying. I want to help him get better, but he has to want to get better. I ask him what he thinks. In true drama form, he responds, "I need to think about it a while."
I head to the backyard and try and figure out how Dad would handle this. How would God want me to handle this? Patience. Encouragement. Love.
Then it hits me. I realize how blessed I truly am. What if Jonathan hadn't been born? I'd have no peach fuzz to teach basketball too, something Dad and I loved to do together. I can't be Dad, but doing things we loved to do keeps the memories alive. And what about Julia and her love for softball? I get to help her practice and get better, but that's a privilege, a blessing. God didn't have to give me two siblings with a love for sports, but He did. I don't have to practice alone. I don't have to fight to remember special moments with Dad. They flood back to me in sports. I add that to my list of one thousand gifts.
I find Jonathan where I left him, his face splotchy from crying. I sit next to him and we talk. We compromise. I promise to be encouraging and patient, if he agrees to give me a %110 and fight through the pain. And just like that, practice resumes. When he gets down, I fight to lift him up. When he cries in pain, I help him push through it with him laughing.
I am so blessed.
256. Solved argument
257. The joy of when Jonathan makes a basket
258. Tears of confession
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