Sophia – Page 3 – Jeffrey Griffin

4th Grade Math

Our daughter is Sophia. Like a lot people, we’ve been doing the home school thing since March. We’ve found a rhythm. We work.

We don’t take learning for granted. We work at it every day. Mornings. Nights. Weekends. Holidays. Summers. We don’t take vacations from learning and exploring. It’s a family commitment. Whatever one of us learns, we all learn. We teach each other.

Sophia is responsible for her work. That does not mean she is left to navigate the world of E-Learning by herself. She does the work. We go over it together. We discuss the problems. We explain the errors. If we don’t know, we search until we find the best solution. There are no excuses.

Today is the last day of assignments for students.

I’ve been exceptionally frustrated and dismayed with the volume of work assigned in these final days of school.

Perhaps it is a hereditary thread from the Poole side of our family. My mother routinely insisted there was no need to work 30 math problems of predictable similarity if you could solve, and understand, the first ten. She was not a big fan of the Department of Redundancy Department. It was not uncommon for me to take a note to school explaining why my math homework was unfinished.

“Jeffrey understands long-division and we had other things to do last night. I told him to skip the last 20 problems. Thanks, M. Griffin.”

My teacher would fold the note and place it on the desk. I was never penalized for incomplete homework.

Imagine my dismay when Sophia was asked to solve more than 50 math problems of predictable similarity each day last Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

There were 20-30 math problems each day. Solve each problem in the math notebook. Solve each problem again online. Show your work and solve one problem, again, in a video to be uploaded to the virtual classroom.

Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department.

I wasn’t happy, but she did it. All of it. We went over every problem. Twice. How ridiculous.

On to this week. Tuesday. Six word problems. Paper and online, but no video. Fine. Let’s get it done.

Imagine my surprise when a grade of 67 was posted for the assignment. My surprise was greater than you might imagine given that only about 30% of her math assignments have been graded during this E-Learning adventure. Sophia has done the work, but she has not received the credit.

I accessed the assignment. Two of the six problems were marked incorrect. I checked the math. The answers were absolutely, positively, 100% correct.

Needless to say, I was frustrated. Vikki reached out to the teacher via email and asked why the responses were marked incorrect.

Apparently… the curriculum teaches a student to “throw away” the remainder in a long-division problem. This is wrong. All the numbers matter. As I explained to Sophia, the cashier at the grocery store doesn’t get to “throw away” the coin change and only deal with the paper bills.

This is precisely why so many children, and eventually, adults, disregard details. Sloppiness is inevitable.

Inconvenient? Don’t bother.

Unpleasant? Skip it.

Incomplete? Doesn’t matter.

The exact wording in the response we received was, “If this was a question on the End-of-Grade test, her response would have been marked incorrect.”

I have news for the world. I don’t give a damn about the End-of-Grade test.

Learn something every day. Work hard. You are responsible for you. Don’t settle for mediocrity. Don’t give up. These are not testable qualities.

The universe can boast of a less-than-glorious history of failing to bother with the inconvenient and skipping the unpleasant and disregarding the incomplete.

Are we content with where we are and how we behave and what we do?

I am not. This family is not. If all we had left in the world was the remainder of a long-division problem, we would build from there. Unless, of course, all we had ever been taught to do was to cast it aside.

The rest of the email response was a lengthy explanation about how grades are calculated and directions on how to divide 100 by 6 to understand the final grade.

It was tainted with more than a touch of sarcasm.

The test is wrong and, perhaps, the corporate teaching leaves something to be desired.

We would rather Sophia learn how to accurately complete a long-division problem than to score well on a bureaucratically-ordained assessment that will have no impact on her successes and failures in the world.

We can live with that.

Memorial Day

Today, our nation observes Memorial Day. It’s not Veteran’s Day. Memorial Day. There’s a distinction.

I want Sophia and Miles to recognize that today is more than “the official start of summer.” I’ve heard that phrase enough times in the last 24 hours to make me throw up. Enough.

Pools are opening. Fine. Great. Wonderful. We’re going to the pool this afternoon.

Massive sales at all the car dealerships. Shocking news. Shocking.

Furniture stores are offering no interest for 60 months. Nothing commemorates death in combat like a new love seat.

The world is ready for a party. I’m not sure that’s the most appropriate way to proceed. I’m in a somber mood.

Veteran’s Day should be a gigantic pep rally. Parades. Fireworks. Concerts. It’s a celebration for the living.

This Memorial Day, and every Memorial Day, shouldn’t we pause to honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice?

“The greatest way to show love for friends is to die for them.” – John 15:13

I was up early today. Vikki was not far behind. Sophia and Miles, always ready for the next adventure, got up without any moaning or groaning.

We headed for the Carolina Field Of Honor in Kernersville.

We paused before each monument honoring the five branches of service. The children read the inscriptions at the base of the flag poles out loud. We rubbed our hands over the shred of steel pulled from the rubble of the September 11^th terrorist attacks.

We got their attention.

“This is not about your grandfather Dave. This is not about your grandfather Richard. This is not about your Uncle David. Your grandfathers were in the Coast Guard and the Army. Your uncle served in the Air Force. This is not about them.

This day is about the men and women who died so you can be free to live your life. Do you understand?”

The ride home was relatively quiet.

Miles headed outside with his Spiderman glove, cowboy hat and cap gun. He stopped at the door and looked back.

“Daddy, do you think I’d be a good soldier?”

“Yes. I hope you don’t have too, but, yes.”

30 Years Late – Part 4 of 4

The headache subsided. Finally. I tried to get on with life.

I got a job at the hospital in Lexington. It was not anything complicated. They let me read love poems on the intercom on Valentine’s Day.

John Cashion was the President of the hospital. He eventually landed in a bit of trouble with the powers-that-be, but he was always kind to me. I ventured into his office one day during lunch and he invited me to return for more conversation. He was always encouraging.

“Jeffrey, go back to school. You could go for business or leadership or health care administration. You would do well.”

Nice words, but I was done with school.

Mike Fenley hired me to work at WSJS radio. He, too, was invariably kind. And patient. He never pushed me to finish school, but I always felt a sense of obligation to do so. I didn’t want to disappoint anymore people.

Vikki and I got married. She went to travel school and earned her certification. My wife is licensed by the Federal Aviation Administration. She has a career. Vikki is a grownup. She finished.

Vikki was flying every week. Sophia and Miles were not on the scene. I was bored. I took a few classes at High Point University. American History Parts I and II as well as a course with a professor that did not speak English. “Jesus and the Gospels.” It was entertaining, but I didn’t learn much I didn’t already know.

It seemed like everybody I knew had long been done with the collegiate experience. They had jobs and families and houses and life insurance policies.

I had an Ebay account and a choir robe at church.

I read the scores to ball games and introduced players.

Vikki and I talked. We decided I should take some online classes at Forsyth Tech. That was charming. And disappointing.

Gathering transcripts. Taking placement tests with kids 25 years younger than me. Discussing my life plan with an admissions counselor that was incapable, or unwilling, to make eye contact.

I had to register face-to-face for my first session of online classes. I asked if there was any possibility of receiving course credit for professional experience.

“What course did you have in mind?”

“Well… Public Speaking 101 comes to mind.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t do that. Besides, that teacher is very good. He can teach you how to prepare to speak in front of large groups.”

“Okey dokey. I was wondering, that’s all.”

“You don’t understand… he has spoken in front of more than a thousand people. You will learn a lot.”

I felt Vikki’s hand on my arm.

I smiled and tried to end the conversation. “I understand. Thank you.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand. Public speaking is difficult, but there is no reason to be nervous. He’ll teach you how to do it.”

“You’ve made that clear. Are we going to register for the class or would you prefer to read my resume?”

Vikki paid the tuition and I wandered outside. I wanted to quit before the first class began. I called Emmett. We’re friends. Emmett threatened me. So, I logged in and went to class.

I’ve watched hundreds of kids leave my classroom and come home a few years later with a degree in hand. I’m happy for them. Really. It also stings. They have done what I never did.

I confess. It’s indescribably disappointing to inquire about an opportunity teaching music or drama and hear, “You’re not qualified. You have no experience. You have no degree. Absolutely not.” It’s especially hurtful when the person on the other side of the desk, or the other end of the telephone, simply isn’t aware. They’re checking the boxes on a form. They don’t care.

I cry easily.

“Jeffrey, don’t take it personally.”

Really? How should I take it? What’s more important, the piece of paper or the talent and the commitment?

It’s not particularly easy to kowtow and fetch for a boss that is young enough to be my child and earning five times the yearly salary on my W-2.

I find a lot of jobs for which I can’t apply. It happens time and time again. The website scans my resume and that’s all there is to that. No degree, no apply.

It’s hard. The responsibility is mine. I fully and completely, without any excuses, accept the consequences of my actions.

The Teaching Fellows. I failed my mama. And North Forsyth. And Dr. Brown.

Mars Hill. I failed Phil Stroud. And Bobbi Jean Harrill.

School Of the Arts. I failed Bill Beck. And Chris Ralph. And Leslie Cobb.

More than anything… I never ever wanted to embarrass Vikki or Sophia or Miles.

Or disappoint John and Mike and Emmett.

Or offer excuses to people who make the world a better place, like Susi and Beau and Donald and Oliver and Jamie.

Everybody else did it and I couldn’t even tag along for the ride. I did not, or could not, finish what I began. What a terrible example for our children. All the friends and all the teachers and all the believers in the world can’t help you if you don’t try to help yourself.

I’ve learned at least that much. It’s not too late to try to do the right thing.

Get up early. Stay up late. Do what needs to be done. It’s taken a couple years.

Miles, Sophia, Vikki and I got in the car Monday evening and drove to Forsyth Tech for the drive-through graduation.

It was neat and rainy and everybody was shrouded in masks. The people were nice. We didn’t get out of the car.

It was bittersweet. I’m not done, but it’s a start.

Jeffrey Griffin. Associate in Arts. With Honors.

Funny, I don’t feel particularly honorable. I feel late. 30 years late.

Our Gang

I was not an outside kid. I did not spend a lot of time traipsing through the woods. That doesn’t mean I was vitamin D deficient. I ventured into the sunlight.

I loved football and the occasional trip to the playground. Nannie and I played two-person baseball in her backyard. I won countless championships with nine ghost players beneath the basketball goal in the parking lot at Maple Springs UMC. Mama and I were always welcome at Uncle Larry’s pool.

I did not live in front of the television. Pac Man was not the dictator of my free time.

Don’t feel badly. My childhood wasn’t lacking.

For the most part, I was on stage. Practice. Rehearsal. Repeat. I’m not sorry. I learned a LOT.

I prefer the inside. Folks unfamiliar with theatre, music and dance may not understand.

We weren’t huddled in a corner with a Ouija board. We weren’t lighting candles and smoking cigarettes.

It was a good thing.

I said all that to say this…

I’m not a huge fan of the outdoors. It’s hot. (Unless it’s cloudy and snowing, it’s hot.) Bugs and critters. Hiking. I don’t want to eat outside. Picnics are not romantic. I know nothing about camping, except the possibility of getting eaten by a bear is exponentially higher than it is if you stay inside.

Here and now. The virus. Shelter in place. I can deal with this. It’s not so easy for Sophia and Miles.

Our children are outside people.

Bicycles. Basketball. Soccer. Runs. Hikes. Exploring the woods. All that stuff.

I do not want our children to do-over my childhood experience. They cannot live my life, nor Vikki’s life, again.

Sophia has to live her life. Find her own passion. Discover her gifts. Make friends. Create memories.

Miles has to live his life. Find his own passion. Discover his gifts. Make friends. Create memories.

Well… our bouncing baby boy and girl are forging friendships in the neighborhood. Good for them. We’re delighted.

In the midst of these unprecedented times, good things are happening.

Families are cooking and eating together. We’re learning how to play board games we didn’t have the time to play before. People are using athletic equipment that’s been sitting in the garage far too long.

Sophia and Miles are out of the house for hours.

Last night, during our nightly walk around the neighborhood, I watched “the gang.”

There are seven. It’s kinda like the United Nations. Diversity at its finest.

Four boys. Three girls. Two Hispanic, two African-American and three Caucasian kids. Four houses.

Bicycles. Scooters. Easy-Rollers. Hoverboards. Roller blades. Roller skates. A unicycle.

Age-wise, they’re all within a few years of each other. They look after one another. They exchanged Easter cookies and cupcakes.

They are moments of “The Boys vs. The Girls,” but there is no finger pointing. There is no “We vs. Them.”

A trampoline in one yard. A primitive club house in another. A soccer goal and a basketball goal. Sidewalk chalk. They share walkie-talkies.

We don’t remind them to stay apart. They monitor themselves. They play in cycles. When two retreat for lunch, the others shift to a different location and the adventures continue.

Everything is outside. No video games. Imagination and freedom and respect and responsibility.

It’s the kind of behavior for which all parents hope and pray.

I wish the adults in the world would follow their example.

It’s not hard.

Our kids are in a gang. Our gang. And we couldn’t be prouder.

Good Friday

A difficult day. It’s not fun. It’s not joyful. Movies and sidewalk chalk and cupcake decorating are out-of-place. The darkest day in the history of ever.

I know what’s coming, but…

Children don’t really understand. Maybe, they do. Kinda. Sorta. Not really.

I didn’t.

School is always out on Good Friday. Whether the school calendar said so, didn’t really matter. At least, not to my mother.

“We won’t be going to school on Good Friday. It’s not a school day.”

And so, Margaret and Jeffrey Griffin never ever went to school on Good Friday. I have news for the world. Jeffrey, Sophia and Miles Griffin will never ever go to school on Good Friday. That ain’t gonna happen.

Somewhere along the way, the people at Maple Springs United Methodist thought is was a good idea to have a Good Friday service.

Great. Another church service. I was less than excited. Friday lunchtime. A handful of people sat in the sanctuary. The preacher did his thing. We sang slow, boring hymns. It didn’t last long, maybe thirty minutes.

The altar and the cross were draped in black cloth.

For me, the best part was lunch in the fellowship hall after the service. Pat Craver served grilled cheese sandwiches. Elinor Starling made vegetable soup.

The Good Friday service at Maple Springs continued for years. A lot of years. It might be happening right now. I don’t know.

Eventually, I started to understand. I noticed nobody smiled during the Good Friday service.

I tried to say something mature and wise. “Y’all know, He’s gonna rise. The Good Guy wins.”

I should have been quiet.

Sometimes, it is impossible to look past the loss. The grief is overwhelming.

Mel Gibson made the movie. “The Passion Of the Christ.” Alright. The world was paying attention.

Somebody at church thought we should gather in Craven Hall and watch the movie on the big screen. Good Friday night. Well, fine.

Are we gonna have soup and grilled cheese for dinner, too?

I had no idea. Preachers have a way of painting pretty pictures with words. Nothing I had ever heard or read or sang had prepared me for what I saw.

Are we really capable of such?

I’d always thought the crucifixion was brutal, but I had not visualized the pain. The agony. The rejection. The guilt.

Nobody smiled that night.

It finally made sense. All those noontime Friday services on Reynolda Road.

It’s not a show. I’m not being dramatic. Good Friday is hard. I don’t pick. I don’t laugh. We don’t play games.

I hurt. It takes a Herculean effort to climb out of the bed and be even minimally pleasant with my family.

I relive every harsh word I’ve spoken. Every ill thought. Every flash of anger. Every poor choice. Every betrayal.

How is this a good day?

“Y’all know, He’s gonna rise. The Good Guy wins.”

Hush, Jeffrey. Hush.

The Power Of Inclusion (The 5th of 5)

Some people won’t like this. Oh, well. See your therapist.

I have enormous respect for the basketball program in Chapel Hill. Carolina. Excellence is not easy. It requires hard work and a bit of good fortune. In necessitates the right people in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. That seldom happens.

Frank McGuire. Dean Smith. Bill Guthridge. Roy Williams.

Longevity at the highest level is rare. The pedigree of the Tar Heel hardwood is unparalleled.

Beyond the wins and the championships… Carolina basketball is all about family. The boys in baby blue look after each other. I admire the loyalty. It’s painfully obvious to the rest of us, who peek in from the outside.

Inclusion. Part five of five. This is it. The final story. I’ve written about church and church again. The ACC Tournament. One lost soul. And now…

Family.

Growing up, I didn’t have a big family. I’m not bitter. I feel sorry for those people obligated to attend a family reunion of 50. Or more. Yuck. I cannot imagine. No thanks. I’ll pass.

Beyond Vikki and Sophia and Miles and a few chosen others… my family is as it has almost always been.

Gretchen. Uncle Larry. Terry. John. Summer Enrichment. Summer school. There are others, too, of course. But, these are the big four. Four of the biggest. The brightest. The best.

Every summer of my life. People talk about it, but it’s impossible to fully understand without having lived it. These supremely gifted individuals defined my existence. They refined my perspective. As much as, and likely more so than, any array of hearts and minds found in any universe, these souls are collectively responsible for who I am.

My mother always said Gretchen’s loyalty was unmatched. “We could call Gretchen in the middle of the night and ask her to bring Krispy Kreme doughnuts to church, and she would.” Gretch joined the Summer Enrichment family when she was barely a grownup. She was immediately “good.” She grew into brilliance. And smart… The good Lord knows, Gretchen knows more about everything than almost everybody. She is the person I trust most in the world. She has never ever been less than honest with me.

Uncle Larry. My mama and Larry found each other at North Forsyth and remained together until, well, forever. I love my Uncle Larry. I LOVE my Uncle Larry. He’s not really my uncle, but that was never the point. The superintendent’s office called North one day for clarification, because (unbeknownst to the rest of the world) there was a running argument as to whether Maggie and Larry were really brother and sister. Larry was the best man at my wedding. Any artistic flair or vision or whatever it might be that dwells within my soul is primarily a result of the hours I spent standing beside him, trying to see what he saw.

Terry. He was not one of the “originals” at Summer Enrichment, but he was the missing piece that, once present, elevated everything from outrageously fantastic to freakin’ ridiculous. He is, without question, the finest musician I know. His music is not his own. I wish I could explain it. No mortal is that good. God chose Terry. The artistry flows from his heart. I wish I could be as good at anything as Terry is at everything. His passion for doing the best we can do is unbelievable. When my school children ask, “Why do you think we can do this?” Terry is the answer.

And John. He didn’t do Summer School “forever.” He slayed other dragons and conquered other realms. John has always been a part of my life. We played football. We clogged. We acted goofy in choir practice. We talked about girls and eventually women. He may, or may not, have provided me with an adult beverage before I was of age. John was the source of much of the fun in my life.

This was my family. They cheered me. Challenged me. Provoked me. Disciplined me. Trusted me. Taught me. Loved me.

More than anything, they loved me. They gave me every chance to be good. Sometimes, we were great.

It wasn’t only me. Along with my mama, they gave thousands of kids the chance to be good. They created a family that did the impossible year after year after year. All of us belonged.

Margaret liked some kids more than others. Gretchen would deal with some. Terry claimed the rest. For the most part, the summer school kids (the smart ones, anyway) didn’t mess with Uncle Larry. John loved everybody, except that one guy with all the bandanas…

We were included. Everybody. The shows were invariably good. Occasionally, there was unrivaled excellence.

The orphans from ANNIE. The last number in 42^ND STREET. Kids flying amid indoor fireworks with BARNUM. THE SOUND OF MUSIC cast was spectacular from top to bottom.

The moments were unending. Some people (a LOT, actually) were unforgettable. Michael. Candace. Tony. Mary.

My brothers and sisters. My family.

The power of inclusion. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Longevity. Pedigree.

The right people in the right place at the right time doing the right thing.

Summer School was, and these people are, the source of much of the good in my life. I miss it, terribly.

I yearn to find my own Gretchen and Uncle Larry and Terry and John. I hope to discover another collection of artistry and brilliance for another generation.

“A rope made from three strands of cord is not easily broken.” – Ecclesiastes 4:12

I wish, for the world, that you each may know the joy that comes from being intentionally included. It is powerful. Jesus knew it. I know it. I hope you find it.

You are loved. Amen.

The Power Of Inclusion (The 3rd of 5)

I held no aspiration to be an announcer. Ever. It was about as far from my top ten life goals as imaginable.

Medical school. A pediatric neurologist. “Here I am, to save the day!” A doctor with a cape. I liked the image.

Law school. An attorney specializing in cases involving children and teenagers. I may have watched too much MATLOCK as a kid.

So much for life plans. I landed in the world of theatre and music. It was fun. I wasn’t bad. Applause is addictive.

Radio and public speaking. Wake Forest called. The voice of the Demon Deacons.

My mother was excited. She wanted me to be the announcer for the Dallas Cowboys. I don’t think it had anything to do with me. She wanted tickets to see the Dallas Cowboys.

I composed a bucket list.

As a child, Saturday mornings were reserved for the Fintstones, Scooby-Doo and SOUL TRAIN. Don Cornelius was the man.

Number one on the bucket list? I want to be the announcer for the opening segment of SOUL TRAIN, whenever it returns to network television. (I am certain it will return.) I’d resort to blackmail and other immoral acts to get that job.

Number two. The stadium announcer for the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympic games. I’m holding onto hope for 2028 in Los Angeles.

Number three. The ACC tournament. It’s the best college basketball tournament in America. I believe it’s better than the Final Four. I grew up watching the games during school on that fateful Friday in March. For me, it is the pinnacle of sports announcing.

A few years ago, somebody from the ACC called Wake Forest University and asked for my telephone number. I got a warning call from an anonymous source in the athletic department.

Sure enough, my cell phone soon rang. It was the Atlantic Coast Conference. “We’re looking for an announcer for the tournament and we’ve been to games in Winston-Salem. We also know you’re busy, so we’re concerned about your availability.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Yes, I’m interested. Yes, I’m willing. And my availability is to be wherever you need me, whenever you need me. How can I help?”

A dream come true. Literally. I was excited. My feet hardly touched the ground in the days leading to the end of the regular season.

It wasn’t the Dallas Cowboys, but, short of SOUL TRAIN and the Olympics, this was IT.

The ACC folks were incredibly kind. And prepared. And patient. And encouraging. It was a world-class experience. I had lunch with Phil Ford on the first day.

Gary Strickland and Dan Collins took me to the post-game media room at the hotel. I couldn’t believe I was in the room with all those famous people. They called me by name. The director from ESPN wanted to meet and talk about the introductions for the championship game.

Another year in Greensboro and another tournament. There is nothing like the big show. They asked me to announce the tournament in Washington D.C. the following season.

“Yes. Of course.”

The ACC people were the best. I wrote thank you notes after each tournament. They wrote back. I may not be the best public address announcer in the world. I make a mistake every now and then. But, I try. I do the best I can. My goal is to be the finest announcer in the world every time I sit behind a microphone. Nobody expects more than I expect of myself, and I’m nearly impossible to please.

Off to Brooklyn. “We have to use the arena announcer due to the union, so we don’t need you in New York.”

It was hard to hear, but, it is what it is. I was sad.

Two years later, the ACC headed to Charlotte. “We’re going to use the Hornets staff.” O.K.

“Do you need me to work in the media room? Anything?”

“No. We’ve got it covered, but thank you.”

2020. Back to Greensboro. I’ve had the tournament marked on my calendar for a year. I hadn’t messed up. I’m not high-maintenance. Greensboro is right down the road.

Not a word. Silence. I reached out. “I’m available if y’all need me. I would love to be a part of the tournament. I’ll do anything to help.” No response.

As I understand it, the league hired a professional wrestling announcer from Charlotte to help call the games.

Yes. I am heart-broken.

To have never had it and never know what it is like is one thing. To have been the voice at center court and lose it is something else.

It’s a ballgame, but it is so much more to me. I don’t collect a big paycheck. I have earned no title. I’m a man. I’m not the greatest at anything. At the end of my life, I wish my children could say, “Our daddy was the best…” something. Anything.

For a while, I thought I would retire after 30 years of calling the ACC tournament. Sophia and Miles will be able to tell their children about the family legend on Tobacco Road.

So much for that. I watch the games on television because I can’t afford a book of tickets.

The failure is mine. Included. Excluded. Looking in from the outside.

“They will say, ‘You started building, but could not finish the job.’” – Luke 14:30

I am left to wonder how, or when, I was uninvited from the nation’s premiere college basketball tournament. It’s not easy to find out you aren’t good enough.

A friend said, “You can’t take it personally.”

Well, I do.

I could not finish the job. I doubt SOUL TRAIN executives or the Los Angeles Olympic committee will call, either. It would be nice. Maybe I can take Miles to see the Cowboys. Maybe.

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.