Eyes on the Prize

It's important to keep your eye on the things that truly matter in life.

I recently signed Zack up for a "junior scout" group that meets at one of the local church basements. The idea was to start getting him more involved in extra-curricular activities, in particular with kids his own age. Zack tends to be a bit of a "stick-in-the-mud" and, on occasion, is surprisingly tentative about trying new things or playing with new kids.

This was our third or fourth time attending, and Zack was finally getting over his initial shyness, playing with the other kids. I stood on the sidelines, occasionally clapping encouragement whenever he glanced over to make sure I hadn't disappeared. Tonight one of the local school coaches was teaching the kids about football tonight - letting them try on a helmet and shoulder pads, and explaining to them why the football was shaped so very strange.

I struck up a conversation with one of the other fathers, a slightly heavy-set thirtish man with curly reddish hair and a goatee. Strangely enough, we had the same first names. We chatted inconsequently, watching the kids screaming around the church basement gym while the junior scout leaders vainly tried to impose some semblance of order. It was like herding cats.

He asked which one was mine and I pointed out Zack, lining up with the other kids in two teams for a beanbag race. He pointed out his son, Bailey, a smiling five year old in the same line as Zachery. I asked casually if he, like us just had just the one.

"No, we have two kids, but we lost one."

For an instant it didn't even register. I looked over, startled. He wasn't looking at me, just watching his son.

"We lost Bailey's sister in 2000. To liver cancer. She was four." He said it in a flat, almost conversational way, devoid of tone or expression. The complete lack of expression in his voice spoke more of the loss then any overt tone of sorrow ever could. It was void that you could feel, right down to your very heart.

I had no response. There was the automatic reflex, the urge to say how sorry your were, followed by that instant, overwhelming realization of the inadequacy of any such words. I was dumbstruck. You simply couldn't convey any understanding or appreciation for such a loss with words.

Silence can sometimes say more than any voice.

So I stood there, in silence, with this man, with whom I shared a name, watching our kids laughing in the gym. Strangely, ironically, evocatively enough, I had that day, just received a job offer. The long months of stress and fretting, endless interviews, resumes, and consulting pitches were resolving into a new job...but after talking to this man, all of that paled in significance.

There are so many far worse things then job loss lurking in this world. And oh so many better things too.

So we watched the kids play.

You have to hold onto the things that truly matter.

If you are interested, you can donate online here to the American Cancer Society or the Canadian Cancer Society, for Bailey's sister.

Have a good night.

Comments are always welcome. You can reach me at dadchronicles(at)hotmail.com.