Fit to be Tied

October 23, 2016

The news coverage of Sunday's Arizona Cardinals - Seattle Seahawks game (final score 6-6 in overtime) is all over the map.  Some reporters lament that the NFL may actually lose some more ratings points because the overtime tie that came about as a result of a largely defensive battle were apparently not entertaining enough for the American people.  Some reporters chose to zero in on the two missed field goals that statistically were as likely to be missed as the NFL is likely to become less greedy. These reporters seemed to have missed some human compassion for the surely crushed and cringing kickers Steven Hauschka and Chandler Catanzaro.   Both kickers missed what were considered easy field goals, but their mistakes met with entirely different reactions:

From the Cardinals coach on Catanzaro's miss:

"Make it. He's a professional. This ain't high school. You get paid to make it."

From the Seahawks coach on Hauschka's miss:

"Hausch made his kicks to give us a chance and unfortunately he didn't make the last one...Just checked in with him. He's been making kicks for us for years, and I love him and he's our guy."

Which begs the obvious question:

Who would you rather work for?

Still other reporters took this game as another golden opportunity to attack the Seahawks offense, which is one of the lowest paid in the NFL, and apparently, according to some, deserving of loss.   That storyline doesn't show much hope for subsiding anytime in the near future.  

A few, very welcome reporters and news agencies chose to focus on the gold star stories in the game.  Among them, an injured quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks named Russell Wilson who, despite appearing to be a dismal failure on Sunday, stayed the course, and advanced on an incredibly even keel to keep trying and never give up, a hallmark of Seahawks character.  And then, there was the other side of the game where an aging quarterback on the Cardinals offense, Carson Palmer, also continued to try, try, try... despite being on the field for a ridiculous amount of minutes.  Palmer also did so with a remarkable consistency considering the brick wall called the Seattle Seahawks defense that seemed to stand between his team and scoring any substantive points.   

Other reporters chose to focus on my favorite storyline to come out of Sunday's maddening game:  that carried by Richard Sherman, master of the emotional outburst in the previous week's game against the Atlanta Falcons.  Rather than being shamed by the press with regard to the anger he showered on national television the week before...Rather than being crippled or weakened by such a venting of emotion... he played one of the best games of his career, not by the end score, not necessarily by the favored statistics... but instead by the fact that he held one of the best wide receivers in the game to ridiculously low yards and did so for an unbelievable proportion of minutes.  He drove himself so hard that he couldn't move in the locker room after the game.  Win or lose, he poured all of himself into his passion and craft.

Those of us out there who have given so much that we temporarily render ourselves catatonic, understand how this goes.  Whether the giving is physical, intellectual, emotional, or far more common, a combination of those things, we understand what it's like to collapse... depleted but knowing that we made ourselves vulnerable and gave it our all. We know that the critique that almost inevitably comes afterward, the unfair or dismissive comments of what we gave... will hurt.  But, watching this kind of story unfold on national TV was a welcome sight.  

In many ways, that's the kind of example those in the national spotlight should set and the one that often makes the most difference.  It's not the moves or the prizes or the performances that win the squeaky clean, universally affirming press coverage that make the difference.  It's the giving it all performances that meet instead with mixed, quirky, off-topic, and generally unsympathetic coverage that stimulate those that are watching to get up in the morning and give it all, no matter what the consequence.  

Despite the fact that I am called to a place where the unsympathetic feedback is more the norm than the exception, I'll get up tomorrow morning and give it my all.  I might have held back, if I hadn't watched what I did for almost four exhausting hours last night.  I might have just given less than what I could, held back, protected my heart, admitted defeat in my limited impact.  But, instead, I'll get up, and push that light inside of me out into the world by trying my very best to be a better teacher tomorrow than yesterday ... no matter what the consequences.  

And, I can hope that my efforts to that effect might also inspire someone else to do exactly that... give it everything without regard to the consequences or aftermath.   
Is that corny?  Well, of course. So?

The Grief Train

In its first round of attack, grief is more like a bullet train.  It races through the heart relentlessly, spreading pain, anger, grief, denial, and emotional debilitation in its various phases.   Remaining on a tight and frequent schedule, the bullet train of grief eventually decides to go elsewhere for amusement and is replaced by a less frequent, conventional train of grief.  Some who we love and lose are only passengers on a car; others are entire cars in and of themselves.  But, regardless of how much they add to the lasting train, it seems as we cycle through grief, all of these losses remain, linger, and build the train up from almost nothing in our younger years to something that can delay us for quite a long time as we wait at the railroad crossing.

As I watch pensively those who are older than me and who are serving as role models for how to age well with Light, I wonder how they bear the burden of the ever increasing loss of loved ones.  As the grief train accumulates more and more cars, does it ever become too much?  Does it overwhelm in the middle of the night?  On dates of significance?  On random notes?

Or, by necessity, does the grief train resort to a free ranging weight on the heart and spirit that, while heavy and dark, still allows for getting up every day?  Do the cars travel into the station, one at a time, considered only as isolated losses rather than a pervasive blanket of emptiness?

For me, at middle age, the grief train comes in moments, and mostly unpredictable ones.  The moments can fill my consciousness in an instant, bringing immediate burning tears to my eyes, making complete sentences an impossibility, and putting professional composure out of reach.  Sometimes, the train leaves as quickly as it arrived, allowing me to return to some semblance of normal behavior. Sometimes the train lingers.  Sometimes, I wonder how to live my remaining years never being able to see those that I've lost until...

While I love this beautiful place that God has created for us to live our lives, I can imagine a day when the grief train will have too many cars, be too much to bear. And, on that day, I can see that, despite the draw of this beautiful Earth, despite the many things left to do in serving a broken world, regardless of the many lessons still left to learn... I will turn the corner, and long to go from this wonderful home to Home.  
Because, much as I would like to say so, I am not yet... confident... and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord  (2 Corinthians 5:8)