I am at a swim meet of Harper’s. It’s called “The Last Chance” meet. This means this is the last chance to make a state cut. Except next week is regionals, and I think you can get a state cut for that, too. Maybe this is a “Second to Last Chance” meet, but that doesn’t roll off the tongue as easily, or provide as much drama.
I’m watching Harper swim the 200 fly. She is in fourth place, but she will make a comeback, and she will win first in her heat. She will shave nine seconds off her time. She will earn a state cut. “She’s sneaky fast,” the mom sitting next to me says. “You’d never know,” she adds.
When Harper leaves the pool, she is swarmed with high fives and hugs. I am far away in the stands, but I see her smile – shy and strong. Later, when it’s just she and I, I will start asking her questions about the magnificence of this moment. Harper will be happy, but even. She will not be rude, but she won’t expand much. She will say, “It was a good race,” and, “I’m excited for state.” And that will be it. And that will be enough.
Our conversation about what I am now calling “Harper’s epic 200 fly comeback” reminds me of a conversation she and I had on the way home from another swim meet – this time after having won another heat and earned a state cut for the 400 IM. It was a Saturday night, and she and I were going to a little party with neighborhood friends after she swam. She had confirmation class the next day, and so I told her we couldn’t be out too late.
“That is, if you still want to do this,” I said, and went on to say that Jesse and I didn’t want to make her do something she doesn’t want to do, or isn’t something she’s ready for.
“Well, what does it mean?” Harper asked.
I pull a few lines from Lauren Winner’s book, Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis and say that confirmation means you might not believe every part of the stories in the Bible, but you’re willing to stick with them, to stay with them, to wrestle and talk about them. It’s a version of what I told Hadley when she was confirmed. It’s what I tell myself.
“OK,” Harper said. “I can do that.” And that was it. And that was enough.
//
My parents come to this last meet – the 200 fly one – and if anyone knows anything about swim meets, you know there’s plenty of time for a Costco size witch’s cauldron of water to boil between events. I say we need to get out of there and get something to eat and walk around downtown Ann Arbor. Hadley suggests we go to Amers.
Over BLTs, tuna sandwiches, crepes, and acai bowls, the four of us discuss one of Hadley’s current English assignments: write an analytical essay arguing whether or not Troy should’ve forgiven his father, Cory, in the play Fences.
We talk about who forgiveness is for – the forgiven or the forgiver, or both. My mom offers a personal apologetic regarding why it’s hard at times to forgive, which leads my dad to ask whether we ourselves are capable of forgiving or if that is the role of the Holy Spirit, and grace.
Hadley follows the conversation closely, and can participate in it, too, and I feel like I’m on an episode of “The Good Place.”
Later, we head back to the meet, and it is jam-packed with parents and siblings and grandparents cheering swimmers on as they plow through the water. There are no seats for us, so we stand in a corner until it’s Harper’s turn.
I feel self-conscious. My parents drove all the way from Raleigh to visit and we are in a very hot, very crowded natatorium, waiting. What’s more, I can’t promise my parents that Harper will win, or get a state cut. Maybe she’ll false start and she’ll get DQed. Maybe her goggles will break. Maybe today she’ll just have a bad event. This is all part of it, but I want my mom and dad to be happy with Hadley and Harper. I want them to be proud of what they’re attempting. I do not know what the outcome will be, and I have nothing to do with any of it. This Last Chance meet is a giant metaphor for parenthood.
Several people in the stands are screaming for someone named Elayna. I don’t know who she is, but from the sounds of her cheering squad, this is an exciting moment. “Elayna! Elayna,” they scream. “Goooo, Elayna!”
My mom steps out of the corner and makes her way into the crowd. “I gotta see how she does,” she tells me before walking down the stairs. She stands and watches for Elayna, and I realize that it’s not about the outcome as it is about the eagerness to watch.
//
By some Lenten miracle, all four of us are home at dinnertime a few nights later, and by another sort of miracle, we are eating something everyone likes. It is a timed meal, though. Hadley has a band practice, and Harper has a band concert at the Hill Auditorium tonight. Between bites of pulled pork and talking about our work and school days, Jesse and I keep an eye on the time.
“Your life is full,” my mom told me once. She could’ve said, “crazy,” “hectic,” or “ridiculous,” and I would’ve felt deflated but I also wouldn’t have had the energy to argue with her. Instead, she gave me “full,” and I felt capable, grateful, and happy. With one word she made me see my life as a series of choices and intentional decisions that I get to make. She made me believe I am doing good work – with the gifts I’ve been given, with the home and community I am in, and with the children Jesse and I are blessed with.
My confession is this: lately, church makes me feel the opposite, especially as it pertains to my children. When I hear (again and again) that youth stop attending church, I feel judged and as though what I am doing is not enough. I’ve been wondering lately whether our perspective is that our church is here for the children, or if it’s that we believe our children are here for the church. Lately, it’s felt like the latter.
An 80 year old woman told me that for a decade now she’s been leading a Bible study for her adult grandchildren out of her home. While she leads the study, her husband plays with their great-grandchildren. Recently, one of her granddaughters told her that she never felt judged by her grandma due to her absence from church. “You just loved me,” her granddaughter told her.
“Behind the scenes, I was praying,” the woman told her.
I do not dare prescribe one agenda or curriculum or what have you for all teenagers and young adults regarding faith formation. But I wonder what would happen if some of us were behind the scenes praying while others were on the front lines.
//
During our dinner, Hadley tells us she was working on her paper – the one on forgiveness – today in English class. “I need three reasons to support my opinion,” she says, while not so subtly moving green beans around her plate to make it look like she’s eating them. She tells us that she has two reasons, but needs a third one. “So I texted Grandpa,” she says. That my dad has his phone on is a third miracle. We joke that he’ll turn it on to call us and then immediately turn it off. And he rarely texts. But this is tax season, and my dad goes to a community center several days a week from January – April and volunteers to help people with their taxes (this is something he will not be happy I’ve divulged as my dad is a 110% behind the scenes kind of guy). I’m sure he keeps his phone on for those he helps and also so my mom can get a hold of him. And in this case, his oldest granddaughter.
“He texted back all we talked about and brought up more points,” Hadley says.
“That sounds about right,” I say.
“I have tons to think about now,” Hadley tells us.
“That sounds about right, too,” I say, picking up the dinner plates and moving them to the dishwasher.
I hope for more dinners with the four of us; for discussions on forgiveness and grace. I hope that Harper feels good and confident about her expression of faith, and I hope they experience God’s presence and pleasure in them all the days of their lives.
I believe my life is full with it now. And that is it. And that is enough.
Love this.