2020-March – Page 4 – Jeffrey Griffin

The Power Of Inclusion (The 2nd of 5)

Vikki and I left the church of my youth. Don’t think it was easy. It wasn’t.

For people who have worked on a musical or played a season in any sport… remember the morning after it ended. The first day there was no rehearsal after spending three months of every waking moment singing and dancing. The first realization there are no more practices after preparing and competing together. It’s over.

Now – multiply that indefinable moment of recognition 30 times. If you haven’t lived it, comprehension is an impossibility.

Parents console. Friends commiserate. Directors stop and breathe. Coaches look to the next season.

The rest of us are left to balance fond memories with the ache of solitary confinement. Self-inflicted or not, it’s hard.

So, we left. I had no desire to go anywhere. I was done. My wife felt differently. We visited. Here. There. Everywhere. Over the course of twelve months, we visited nearly 100 churches. Sunday morning. (Twice.) Sunday evening. Wednesday night. The occasional Saturday. Offerings during Monday lunch and Thursday afternoon. Every denomination. Big. Small. In-between. Traditional. Contemporary. Blended.

Mrs. Griffin liked a few. I liked none. We finally found a place I thought I could tolerate. We returned for the Sunday night service. A well-intended usher stopped me at the door. “You’re welcome to stay, but, so long as you know, tonight’s service is for people 35 and younger.”

I smiled. “Got it. Thank you.” I took Vikki’s hand and we proceeded to walk in.

The usher followed us. “I mean, you might be uncomfortable. It’s a service for young people.”

I could feel Vikki’s grip tighten as I spoke, “Just so you know… God doesn’t have an age requirement. Nor a dress code. He likes everybody.” I thought my illustration was clear. Apparently, it was not.

“Well, like I said, you’re welcome to stay, but it really is for people younger than you.”

Well. Damn. I looked at my wife and apologized. We headed for the door. Another, more seasoned church member chased us down in the parking lot.

The second effort was commendable, but the damage had been done. “We gone.”

I was officially done with church. I’d had it.

A dear friend suggested we bring Sophia to the Harvest Celebration at Center Grove Baptist Church in Clemmons. Lewisville. Somewhere in between. Out there.

It was cool. Lots of people. Tons of candy. Food and drinks. They invited us to return on Sunday. We went.

I loved the choir. David Newman, one my mother’s all-time favorites, sang a solo. The preacher could preach. We kept going.

Lifegroups are big at Center Grove. For the uninformed, lifegroups are the latest reincarnation of Sunday School classes. I’m not a Sunday School person. I enjoyed Ruby Cocklin’s 5^th/6^th grade class at Maple Springs, but everything that followed was, well, less than scintillating.

We found a lifegroup. We made friends. Dinners on Wednesday nights. We decorated our car for Trunk-Or-Treat at the next Harvest Celebration. We wore ugly sweaters at the lifegroup Christmas party.

I’ve always felt enormous pity for folks that spend their life going from church-to-church, always finding a reason to complain and never fully investing in the life of the church.

Church is not a noun. Church is a verb. Vikki. Sophia. Miles. Jeffrey. All in. Our church home.

As unlikely as it sounds, Center Grove did not have a music ministry for children. I was astonished. I was pretty vocal about my belief that children should absolutely, positively, without a doubt, be involved in a church choir as early and as often as possible.

They scheduled a meeting. I went to the music store and got several demo packs of children’s Christmas programs. “We could do this or that or… I really like this one! Or we could write our own.”

The church leadership decided we should do a children’s Christmas program. I was delighted. I offered to help. I mean, really, I’m not a stranger to Christmas programs. Especially children’s programs.

I got the first notice… “Jeffrey, we appreciate your willingness to serve, but you cannot help in the children’s ministry until you are baptized. In Jesus’ name…”

“I’ve been baptized.”

“Sprinkled or immersion?”

“I was sprinkled.”

“The church doesn’t recognize the baptism unless you go under.”

“So, I have to get dunked to teach songs to children?”

“There is more to it than that, but, yes.”

I met with multiple church leaders to share my testimony and convince them of my heart for service. I went to class. Four classes, actually. The day arrived and, with Sophia and Miles watching, the preacher put me under in a hot tub on the front lawn at Center Grove Baptist.

Praise the Lord. It was fine. I don’t think it hurts to be baptized twice but I was, and remain, convicted on the premise that once is enough.

The second notice arrived…

“Jeffrey, congratulations on your baptism! We are happy for you and we’ll be praying for you. Again, we appreciate your willingness to serve in the children’s ministry, but we have a church member that is familiar with how-to-do a children’s program and we think it would be best if you watched this time around, so you can learn how to do a program. In Jesus’ name…”

I wasn’t thrilled. Leave it at that.

Vikki got dunked as a kid, so she was immediately eligible to work on Wednesday nights. They put her right to work. Sound and lights.

The first Wednesday night. The person who was supposed to “lead” didn’t show up. I was sitting in the corner. About 200 kids looking around, on the verge of going bat-crazy. My wife started walking in my direction with “that” look.

“Jeffrey, get up and teach those children.”

“Nope.”

“Jeffrey! Stand up and teach those children. Sophia and Miles are out there. You wanted this. I don’t know how to do it. Don’t be difficult.”

“No. They told me I’m supposed to watch so I can ‘learn how to do a program.’ It’s not my problem. Call somebody else.”

Vikki Griffin isn’t often angry. With anybody. Especially me.

I hollered after her as she stomped back to her sound board, “And I don’t have the music.”

A music book promptly sailed past my head.

60 minutes later, we had learned four measures. I was hot. The children were roaring. My wife was speaking and we were on our way to a Christmas program that saw about 250 kids leading in worship.

I wanted to continue. I made the plea. “Children’s choir every Wednesday night. We have the momentum. We should do it now. Don’t wait. The kids are excited.”

For the record, I firmly believe when a kid grows up singing JESUS LOVES ME and DO LORD and WHO BUILT THE ARK, that is the bedrock of faith that will sustain them when they are faced with the opportunities to buy a nickel bag or bully the new kid or face-down depression in the darkened corner of a dorm room.

This – THIS – is what the church should be teaching our children. Jesus loves you. Yes. Yes. Yes.

A third notice…

“Jeffrey, thank you for your assistance helping lead our children in worship during the Christmas season. We have decided to continue our Wednesday nights for kids with an emphasis on service and missions. There will not be any additional music rehearsals. In Jesus’ name…”

Alright. It was nice while it lasted. One and done. It wasn’t right, but I was not going to be “that guy,” always finding something about which to complain.

Our lifegroup was good. Good people. Great people, but a change was blowin’ in the wind. The leader of our lifegroup succumbed to brain cancer. We sat together at the funeral. A sad day. We prayed. We sang. We prayed some more.

Eventually, I started helping lead the lifegroup. Prayer time. Teaching. The group kept growing. New folks joined. I was concerned we were losing some of the “old folks.” (As in… some of the lifegroup members that had been around for a while and were uncharacteristically absent far too often.)

Monday morning, one of the church leaders called my cell phone. The conversation would inevitably be good or bad. Might as well find out now.

“Jeffrey, it has come to our attention that you used an inappropriate word while teaching the lifegroup yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I guess it’s possible. I might have said something I should not have said. What did I say?”

“You used the word, ‘boobs.’”

I had to stifle my laughter. “Boobs? When did I say ‘boobs?’ That’s right, I did. I absolutely said ‘boobs.’ I don’t understand the fuss. Everybody’s got ‘em. We’ve all seen ‘em. God made ‘em.”

In hindsight, I should have said less in that conversation.

I vividly recall the moment. The lifegroup was talking about gender and church leadership. I made the statement: “If Sophia Griffin came home and said, ‘Daddy, I want to be a preacher,’ it would be a terrible thing to look at her and say, ‘I’m sorry, baby, you can’t be a preacher because you have boobs.’”

Somebody was offended. Oh well. Somebody is always offended. I’m offended that they’re offended. How offensive.

It was the last time I was asked to teach the lifegroup. I didn’t receive official notification, but it felt like a formal suspension.

A few weeks later, a member of the lifegroup criticized the Pope. I was offended. I spoke up in defense of the leader of the Catholic church. To be a protestant, I’m a very good Catholic. We spend every Christmas Eve with the Pope during the NBC broadcast of midnight mass from the Vatican.

People let details get in the way of worship. We’re on the same team.

Needless to say, that didn’t go over well. Another reprimand.

The dynamic of the lifegroup was changing. It was less and less about sharing life. From where I sat, it was becoming a group that acted in accordance with whatever social activities were calendared by those in charge.

I was not allowed to bring Sophia and Miles to a children’s outing for lifegroup families because “it really is a time for the kids to play while the mothers get together. You would be uncomfortable.”

The men in the group seemed destined to spend time together only if it had something to do with shooting or racing or camping. I don’t shoot things. I know even less about racing. And camping? Hahahahahahahaha.

Vikki flies most weekends. She repeatedly asked if we could get together and do something on a weeknight. One of the newest-self-proclaimed lifegroup leaders responded, “Vikki, this is convenient for most of us. If your schedule changes, let us know.”

My wife cried. I was angry. The last straw. (Almost.)

The same lifegroup member that incorrectly diagnosed my comfort level during the children’s outing and subsequently told my wife to “let us know” approached us Sunday morning.

“Vikki, Jeffrey, we’re planning a bowling party for the group and we were thinking that y’all could introduce us like Pat Sajak and Vanna White on WHEEL OF FORTUNE! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Vikki looked stricken. I said, “No. We don’t work for free and you probably can’t afford us.”

“Oh. We thought it would be neat to be introduced…”

In the weeks that followed, we said little, if anything, during lifegroup. It had become painfully obvious we didn’t belong. We didn’t fit in. Sophia and Miles sensed something was not quite right, but they didn’t know what questions to ask.

One of the best, if not the best, developments of our adventure at Center Grove is my friendship with Emmett. My best friend. I love Emmett. He is irreverently outspoken. Ridiculously smart. Wildly funny. He is passionate about two things: Jesus and family. The man will do whatever needs to be done. He is one of the heroes of my life.

Emmett and I talked about the lifegroup. A lot. The next best step was obvious. We met with the church leadership. We asked for permission to create a new lifegroup. We said nothing negative about the current group. Not a word. There was no reason to whine or complain.

“The church is growing. We think another lifegroup would be helpful. It is becoming increasingly difficult to stay connected with individuals due to the sheer size of the class roster.”

One of Emmett’s jobs is teaching. The man has a master’s degree. He’s an ordained minister.

Then, of course, you have me. I am what I am. Husband. Father. Teacher. Musician. Worship leader. User of inappropriate words.

A saint and a sinner.

Together, we’re actually pretty good.

We submitted the required paperwork. The church leadership said our request would be reviewed and they would “be in touch.”

Emmett and I felt good. We were excited. We went to dinner and argued over hush puppies.

A few days later… An email arrived.

“Emmett, Jeffrey, thank you for your willingness to serve in a lifegroup but, after prayerful consideration, the church cannot grant your request to establish and lead a new lifegroup. In Jesus’ name…”

I quit reading. Emmett reached out, “Why?”

“Well, Emmett, we feel it would be inappropriate for two men to lead a lifegroup if their wives cannot be present.”

“So… Jeffrey’s wife is a flight attendant and works weekends. My wife teaches in the children’s ministry. And because they are working and volunteering, we can’t lead a lifegroup?”

“Correct.”

We talked. Emmett and I chose to remain quiet. We don’t believe in arguing in church.

“They became so angry that they got up and threw him out of town. They dragged him to the edge of the cliff on which the town was built, because they wanted to throw him down from there. But Jesus slipped through the crowd and got away.” – Luke 4:29-30

There is nothing quite like being out of the club. I never went back. Vikki, Sophia and Miles finished the school year. We slipped away, unnoticed.

Out is one thing, but we weren’t even missed. Guess I’ll stay at home and watch Pat and Vanna. That’ll be fun…

The Power Of Inclusion (The 1st of 5)

Being left out hurts. Perhaps because I have spent so much of my life on the inside of the velvet ropes, I handle the notion of exclusion poorly. Which is to say, I don’t handle it at all.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. Move on.

Richard Griffin was my father. I rarely speak of the man. Richard departed when I was four years-old. He chose to leave the family. Abandoned. I’m still wary of the sting of not being wanted. The therapists and psy-everybodies are lining up for consultations.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. Move on.

That said, I freely admit to harboring an unquenchable thirst for acceptance. I like being a part of “the group.” I’m accustomed to having a seat at the table and a larger-than-life presence in the inner circle.

Clearly – a different circumstance from my own, but I agonize on Good Friday when Peter denies the Man three times. Me and you, Jesus, me and you. The pain that bubbles up when a friend turns away is… well. It is what it is.

Rejection is not washed away like dirt in the shower. It is not scratched off like an old scab. It is not discarded like table scraps or junk mail.

It is a piercing for which there is no bandage. Neosporin won’t help.

My mother spent her life in church music. Carl Hemphill, the preacher at Carolina Memorial Baptist Church in Thomasville, announced the church organist was leaving to get married and “We need somebody to play next week. Who has had the most piano lessons?” Despite her opposition and thanks to my grandmother’s insistence, my mother was chosen.

Thus, Margaret’s nearly 70 year-adventure in church leadership began. Eventually, she resigned from an unnamed and now-defunct church after a less-than-pleasant conversation with the minister who told her, “Maggie, you’re going straight to Hell if you don’t stop smoking cigarettes.”

We went home. My mother said, “I’m not doing anymore church music unless God sends a dove to my front door with a note tied to its leg.”

Later that week, there was a knock on our door at Countryside Apartments about nine o’clock one night. Bobby Faulkner was standing there.

“Maggie, can I come in?”

The Faulkner children were North Forsyth kids and Bobby’s carpet store, Old Town Carpet, had been the sponsor of my little league baseball team.

“Of course.”

“Maggie, I’m sorry to bother you but Betty and I go to Maple Springs and we’re looking for a new choir director. I was getting ready for bed and it felt like God kept telling me to come ask if you might be interested…”

“Pull up your pant leg. Is there a note tied to your ankle?”

We went to Maple Springs the next Sunday and the committee offered Margaret the job right after the service.

That was 1979.

I grew up at the Pumpkin Church. It was home. My grandmother moved in with us in 1982. The three of us were almost always one of three places: school, church or home. More often than not, it was school or church.

Maggie, Jeffrey and Mrs. Poole.

Almost immediately, my mother told me I was singing in the Chancel Choir. (The adult choir.) I sat beside Bobby Faulkner.

I’ve done a lot of music with a lot of people in a lot of places. No one has been more influential in my musical upbringing than Bobby Faulkner. The enormity of my respect and affection for the man is indescribable. He is a magnificent human being.

The church grew. The church grew a lot. At some point, for some report, we had to count numbers and compile lists. (Methodists love committee meetings and reports.)

We attempted to document everything. There were 17 “groups” in the Music Department involving just over 300 people. We counted everything again. That couldn’t be right.

Bells. Tone chimes. Choirs. Instrumentalists. A praise team. Children. Youth. Adults. Senior citizens.

Vikki and I were married. Margaret had retired from school. As a family, the three of us were at church 60-80 hours per week.

Margaret was not well. Her mobility was severely limited. She continued to direct the Chancel Choir, the Senior Choir, Golden Bells, Children’s Bells, the Praise Team, the Youth Choir and Youth Bells in addition to special services and programs.

Vikki, and a then-infant Sophia, helped run the sound board during the traditional service, built sets and made costumes. She kept life going by filing music, organizing folders, setting up microphones, plugging in cables, maintaining the calendar and carrying bell cases wherever they needed to go.

I tagged along. Worship leader for the early service. Arranging parts for the instrumentalists. Chancel Choir. Children’s choir. And… well, I went wherever I needed to be. I sang SWEET LITTLE JESUS BOY every Christmas Eve. It was my favorite moment of the year.

As Margaret became weaker and weaker, I directed more and more. We were constantly recruiting new members.

Maple Springs was our home. I think my wife was surprised by how many hours we spent in the church, but she never complained.

Church is reflective of the world. The more we moved forward, the more some folks voiced their opposition.

“That song is too slow! That song is too fast! We need more video! We’re not having a screen in the sanctuary! I want a wireless mic! Microphones are of the devil!”

The clamour was incessant. I was more than a little perplexed. Aren’t we all on God’s side? All the way with Yahweh. God is good… all the time and all the time…

2009. Margaret became very ill. She was hospitalized and was heavily sedated. They called Vikki at home. “We’re taking her in for emergency surgery. We don’t think she’ll make it. Get her as quickly as you can if you want to see her again.”

Vikki called me. We met at the hospital and crashed through the heavily guarded doors protecting the hallway leading to the operating rooms. They were rolling my mother into the O.R.

“Wait!” Vikki ran down the hall carrying our baby. “Sophia wants to say goodbye.”

My mother kissed my daughter and my wife earned “Bad Ass” status for life.

Life note: people in green scrubs are not especially fond of hallway interruptions. Just saying.

To little surprise, Margaret survived. They gave her LOTS of happy juice and she was as high as a kite for several days. Several.

Nobody knew at the time, but the family had already decided Margaret was going to retire at the end of the year. She would do Christmas and be done. We were in agreement. We had not informed the church because we did not want the last six months to be a gigantic going away party. Church is church. It was not going to be the “Farewell Maggie Tour.”

The preacher from Maple Springs visited Margaret in the hospital. Vikki and I were not there. In a moment of lucidity, she told him she was planning to retire at the end of the year.

It was a confidential utterance.

The preacher returned to the church and made the announcement from the pulpit. “Maggie is not returning.”

We were stunned. In hindsight, we should have seen it coming. He was not a fan of my mother. There was an uneasiness whenever the two of them were in the same place. I think he wanted our family gone.

He refused to learn Vikki’s name. We laughed about it until it became uncomfortable. He never ever addressed my wife by name. I found it disrespectful. Vikki, the more easy-going half of our union, swept it under the collective rug and continued doing whatever needed to be done.

We read about the service and reception to honor Margaret’s 30 years of service in the church newsletter. We were never told.

I called the church and informed the preacher that Margaret could not attend because she was in a rehab facility for physical therapy and Vikki would be flying out-of-state. “We need to find another date.”

His response? “Sorry you can’t be here but that’s when we’re doing it.”

No member of the Griffin family attended.

The “Director Of Music” job opening was posted in all the regular places. I submitted my resume and a cover letter.

Hire me. Don’t hire me. The church absolutely has the right, and the responsibility, to make the best decision possible for the church. Not a problem. I agree.

I thought, however, I had earned the opportunity to be in the conversation. 30 years and a family commitment merited at least the consideration.

The preacher assembled a committee. (How Methodist. Bless our hearts.) One of the committee members was sent to deliver the message in person.

“Jeffrey, we received your resume and your letter but, the truth is, you’re simply not qualified. We hope you will find a place in the church where your talents can be better utilized.”

Through the grapevine, I learned that the preacher was saying some pretty ugly things about me and my family around town. I was angry. I was more than angry.

I contacted the Administrative Board of the church and asked them to put a stop to the inappropriate conversations. Nothing happened.

I sent the preacher a “Jeffrey version” of a cease and desist letter. Nothing happened.

Eventually, I contacted the Bishop’s office of the North Carolina Conference of the United Methodist Church. “The comments about my family better stop. If it continues, we’re prepared to retain an attorney.” I’m guessing there was a phone call and the preacher found his OFF button.

Vikki, Sophia and I did not return to Maple Springs. Bitterness morphed into anger which led to deep resentment. I nearly drowned in a wave of rejection and depression that was almost impossible to overcome.

I declared I would not return to any church. Vikki prayed and prayed and prayed for my well-being.

Countless football games played among the pumpkins each October. Learning to drive in the vast parking lot. Placing flowers on the cross on Easter Sunday. The memories haunted me.

Every time I drove past the Pumpkin Church, I was consumed with a hatred that was unnatural and unhealthy.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. I could not move on.

In the Methodist church, preachers come and go. Love ‘em or hate ‘em: hang on for a while and a new one will appear.

Time passed. The preacher left. Jeff Coppley arrived. I knew Jeff long before he was the senior pastor at Maple Springs. I like Jeff. I love Jeff. He is a righteous man.

Margaret died. (That sounds ugly when I read it out loud.) Eventually, it will happen to each of us.

Jeff and I met in his office to talk about the memorial service for my mama. That was a conversation. I finally said everything I’d wanted to say about every thought and every feeling and every everything since we left the church in 2009.

Thunder and lightning. Earthquake and avalanche. It was not a moment Jeff could fix and I was in no mood to pray. He let me be. Being in the church building made me sick.

What I wanted, was to be included. What I wanted, was to be needed. What I wanted, was to be a part of the whole.

More than anything, I wanted somebody to stand up and claim me.

“The Lord turned and looked at Peter. And Peter remembered that the Lord had said, ‘Before a rooster crows tomorrow morning, you will say three times that you don’t know me.’ Then Peter went out and cried bitterly.” – Luke 22:61-62

I don’t sing in church these days. I sit in the congregation with my wife and our children. I’m fine with God. We’re good. Church, on the other hand…

We celebrated Margaret’s life. The sanctuary was full. The organ roared. The piano sparkled. The drums pulsed. The bells chimed. We danced. Terry Hicks and I picked three of the biggest, loudest, most outrageous anthems we could find for a choir that was bigger-than-life. Some of the people I love most lead the readings. Preachers preached. Saints prayed. Sinners laughed. It was the most glorious hymn-singing to ever happen this side of Heaven.

And, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t angry with the church. I finally understood it is not the place our family is supposed to be. I called Jeff. I explained and he understood. I knew he would.

Maple Springs is home to some spectacularly wonderful people. Folks I cherish. Folks for whom I would do anything. Folks I love. I’ve never thought the church is “bad.”

The church should have done better. The church must do better.

For whatever reason, a handful of well-meaning Christians thought it wise to exclude me and mine. My Nannie would have said we were “run off.” I say we were pushed out. That hurt. It still hurts. Some nights, I weep.

Bitterly.

Redemption

We have two children. A girl and a boy.

One is decidedly independent and passionate about her ability to do anything and everything. Irish temperament and Italian attitude. One day… she will be Queen.

The other is deeply compassionate and notable in his ability and willingness to see the big picture. Faith and laughter guide the way. One day… he will be King.

It was more than a tad surprising when we received an email from the boy’s second-grade teacher about his behavior.

Most parents would have washed away the offense with the customary “Boys will be boys.”

Nope. Not us. We don’t roll like that.

We talked. Mostly, I talked. He listened. He accepted the consequences of his choices. He apologized to the class. He apologized to the teacher. All was well.

Two weeks later. Another email. Another outburst. The teacher was rightfully concerned for his well-being.

“He is spending too much time with another student who makes poor choices and I think that child may be a negative influence. But, you said you wanted to know if anything else happens…”

Miles is responsible for Miles. No excuses. Discipline and accountability happen at home. “We’ll take care of this tonight.”

More consequences. A few tears. His rear-end was tender. The point was clear. “If it happens again, this will happen and this will happen and this will happen. Do you have any questions?”

He fell asleep on my chest after the heaves subsided.

The next week. A phone call. “Miles said something ugly in art class…”

I left school. “I’m going to get my son.” The drive to Vienna Elementary School was longer than I expected. I checked in at the office and headed toward the lunch room.

The look on his face was nothing less than sheer terror when he turned the corner and ran into my legs.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“My behavior?”

“Get your stuff and say goodbye to your teacher.”

His head tilted with that confused-dog look.

“I told you last time… you are not allowed to stay in school if you cannot be a good person and act responsibly. Your time here is done. Say goodbye.”

He gathered his belongings, hugged his teacher and followed me to the car.

It wasn’t the best afternoon of his life.

Everything in me wanted to rewind the day and give him a do-over. But, better to have the conversation now than to wait until he is fifteen and realize I am too late.

I drove to the police station for a sidewalk conversation about responsibility and consequences. We circled the block housing the jail in downtown Winston-Salem. Off to the prison on Cherry Street for a lasting image of felons playing basketball. Our last stop was the Juvenile Detention Center on Shattalon Drive. I drove to the gate, stopped our car and opened his door.

“The choice is yours. I know you can, but will you behave? Will you speak respectfully? You are responsible for you. There is not a next time. This is unacceptable and it will not continue. Are you going in or are we going home?”

The boy I love more than life sat in the front seat and sobbed uncontrollably. The lesson learned.

We went home. Vikki was standing at the door. Our son had cried so much he could hardly walk into the house.

“Beyond Scared Straight: The Griffin Experience.”

“You will write a letter of apology to your teacher and the class. You will wash the tables in the art room. You will not be a ball boy at anymore Wake Forest games this season. You will not participate in Weed Whackers. The television and every electronic-anything are gone. Don’t ask. And you are officially done with basketball at West Central for this year. You have let down your teammates. Due to the choices you made, they will have to play without you.”

And a spanking.

He had no more tears to shed.

It was the worst afternoon of my life.

Miles fell asleep. I cried and cried and cried. Vikki and Sophia ate dinner alone.

“Boys will be boys” is crap. Parenting is not always trips to Tweetsie and Halloween candy.

A boy who behaves inappropriately and speaks disrespectfully and consistently makes poor choices will grow to be a man that does the exact same thing.

He returned to school. He called the basketball office at Wake and resigned from his ball boy responsibilities. He called his coach at WCCC and explained why he could not return. He watched me delete the Weed Whacker registration from our computer. Eventually, the television and the other electronics were reinstated. The art tables were cleaned. The apology notes were delivered.

He did not have any more contact with the “negative influence” at school. Vikki and I talked with his teacher almost every day.

The boy got it together. He did everything we asked him to do. His attitude was, and is, spectacular.

He asked for another chance to be a Wake Forest ball boy. He asked for another opportunity to play basketball at West Central.

Fair enough. He earned it.

The Deacons welcomed him back with open arms. He was drafted to play on the Cavaliers at WCCC. (And for the curious, he is three weeks into Weed Whackers field hockey camp at Kentner Stadium.)

Miles sorely missed the post-season tournament at West Central last year. It was a bitter day, knowing his friends and teammates were battling on the hardwood and he could not participate.

This is another year. The Cavs finished in third place during the regular season. They would have to win three games in eight days to claim the tournament title.

First round: the 6^th seeded Yellow Jackets. It wasn’t particularly traumatic nor dramatic. A win. Survive and advance.

Second round: the 2^nd seeded Deacons. Semi-finals. The teams split during the regular season. Miles hit the game winner in overtime in the second match-up. Another close one, but Cavs win again.

Third round: the number 1 seed (and undefeated) Wolfpack. Championship Saturday. Due to winter weather, they had only played once during the regular season and the Cavs got trounced the first time around. The margin was somewhere around 30. I tried to forget as quickly as possible.

The Wolfpack is good. Much of the time, they’re great.

As normal, Miles was assigned to defend one of the best players in red. He had his hands full.

The game plan was easily apparent. The Pack had decided they were not going to let Miles play his regular game. He was pressed, pushed, double-teamed, blocked, trapped and harassed from baseline to baseline.

The boy could not score. Driving to the basket was not an option. He would have to find another way to help the team.

Rebound. Make the pass. Get on the floor. Talk. Encourage your teammates. Play defense.

Boy, did he. He battled every second. He sustained an elbow injury and a knee injury. During the 4^th quarter, while he was trying to not limp and could not straighten his left elbow, I asked him if he needed to come out. He waved me off with a Rocky Balboa-esque glare, determined to finish the fight. He finished the game in tears.

With some help from his friends, Miles held “the other guy” to two points. One basket.

20-19. Cavs won. It wasn’t Miles and the Pips. The team won.

Charlie converted an incredible jump shot. Nate dived out of bounds while trying to save the ball. Ethan made buckets in transition. Josh was a hawk on the ball. Evan was never out of position. Max chased down loose balls. Jordan provided help defense. Mason made his second free throw of the season. And Colin – dominated down low and nailed the winning free throw.

A glorious Saturday. The big trophy. Medals.

He congratulated the Wolfpack players and sprinted across the court. I caught him in mid-air and we hugged a hug that only fathers and sons can hug. One of the best moments of my life.

I kept thinking about that long trip to Vienna and the consequences that cost my son so much.

He could have given up. He accepted the responsibility. He washed the tables in the art room. He found a way.

Miles found redemption. Any man can.