I love football and I have since I was a young child. On Sundays in the fall, we had church and football and not necessarily in that order. Dad and I were not so secretly annoyed with the Baptists. Their pastor had the decency to get the service over in time for the kickoff, but our nondenominational pastor didn't seem to understand the importance of the sport. Mom and our pastor, Walter, would probably have said we should care more about God than the Cowboys, but I always thought it was a sin to throw stumbling blocks into your brother's path. Don't even get me started about Sunday night services and Super Bowl Sunday.
I say this in jest, but hey, I was raised a Dallas Cowboy football fan. Once upon a time, I knew all the names and numbers of the entire Doomsday Defense. It was not uncommon for Mother to jump up and down screaming in the middle of my living room, "Go, Rogie baby, go!!"
When my own son had the opportunity to play football, I was thrilled and he didn't want to play. I didn't give him a choice. I told him he was playing in no uncertain terms. If he wanted to quit after the first season, fine, but I insisted he give it a try because I knew him and I knew he'd love it. He'll be the first to say it was one of the best things I ever did for him.
People get hurt playing football, of course. Some permanently injured and a small group actually die, but it's sometimes a dangerous sport. I never thought much about that, actually, because life is always somewhat dangerous and living with a million precautions just to make it to the next day doesn't seem like a very satisfying way to live. I mean, you're still alive, but what's the point?
When my daughter wanted to be a cheerleader, I about gagged. Cheerleading is not on the list of things I want my girls to do. Flitting around in tiny skirts and tops, standing on the sidelines of someone else's accomplishments on the field waving pom-poms? Please. My girls are better than this. They don't need to bask in the faded glory of someone else's deeds. They have their own mark to make on the world and it sure as hell doesn't include being an ogled, ignorant, rah-rah chick.
And cheerleaders have the reputation of being dumb as a box of rocks. They're known airheads, the butt of all kinds of jokes, and their focus on looks and hot bods and the like is just not anything I want my daughters associated with because my girls are smart enough to be successful without all this silly, girlie clap-trap.
Part of the thing about raising children, however, is getting over yourself. This chip on my shoulder over cheerleading is just that, my chip. My dreams are not their dreams. Living my own life through my children is a grave disservice to them. It's self-absorbed, narrow, constraining to them and just a bit sick. It's cramming them into a box with my name on it and stomping on them until they fit in my box so I can slam down the lid and entomb them in my thoughts and dreams. Like I said, sick.
So I shut my mouth, crammed my thoughts down my own throat, and signed up my daughter to be a cheerleader. I began to watch and applaud her efforts. She's very, very good at what she does and she works hard to accomplish it all. In fact, she blows me away every time she does those flippy things that must defy the law of gravity. It's not my first choice, but it's hers, and she just rocks. I'm so proud of everything she can do. She's amazing.
People get hurt in cheerleading, of course. Some permanently injured
and a small group actually die, but it's sometimes a dangerous sport.
I never thought much about that, actually, because life is always
somewhat dangerous and living with a million precautions just to make
it to the next day doesn't seem like a very satisfying way to live. I
mean, you're still alive, but what's the point?
And with cheerleading, it might be a very different kettle of fish if someone gets hurt because I don't like it, right? One football playing child following a dream, a quest, a goal that I endorse and approve of might be different than another cheerleading child following a dream, a quest, a goal that I disdain. Nope. Not if I love my children, applaud their accomplishments, and respect their dreams and their lives, well lived, in exactly the way they choose to live them.
If either one of them were seriously hurt or killed chasing their own rainbows, I'd feel no differently. Life well lived entails risks. Getting in a car and driving to the grocery store is a risk. Everyday we can stay home and risk a gas fire, or get out there, live, and risk all the other things that make life worth living. I'd neither stage a protest rally against football with Greta Van Susteren, nor invite Katie Couric to a sit-in at a cheerleading competition. I'd be beyond devastated that they were gone, but so proud of all they'd managed to accomplish. Period.
Which brings me to the situation going on 30 miles down the road from me in Crawford, Texas. There is a mother there who is understandably out of her mind with grief. I would be too. My heart aches for her loss. I have a son who has seriously considered military service for the last 2 years. He wouldn't be the son I raised if he hadn't considered military service after 9/11 and he wouldn't be the son I raised if he'd left his obligations at home to go and serve at this time. That doesn't mean he won't go. It means he isn't going now.
His best friend, Jared, is in Iraq. I love Jared and I cannot imagine the agony and pain we would go through if we lost him. His family would feel the same to the tenth power all the way to infinity. Unimaginable. But Jared volunteered to go. He signed up to serve, and he asked to go to Iraq this spring. He's an amazing patriot, a brave man, and he's doing what he wanted to do. He chose it, no, embraced it, and we can do no less to honor Jared and all the brave men and women who've embraced this fight than to support them, their dreams, quests, and goals. And give them our unending gratitude, thanks, and applause.
I wish this mother in Crawford, Texas would allow her son the same gratitude, awe, honor, and applause for his amazing service to our country without trying to stuff him into her own little box while slamming down the lid. He was an American patriot, a voluntary hero, and he deserves our respect, our thanks, and our unending gratitude for his service to this country. His choice, his glory, his life.
God bless him and comfort his family.
God bless and comfort all of the families who've sent their loved ones to war. God bless and comfort all of the families who've endured the loss of a loved one in this war. We will never forget their honor and sacrifice to our country. God bless and comfort all of the families who've endured the injury of a loved one in this war. We are praying for you all. God bless all of our soldiers still fighting this war on the front lines and let us continue to pray for them all daily. They are the best of us and the least we can do is pray for them, honor and support them to the fullest of our abilities until they come home.