There was an informal press conference after that third-grade championship game. It consisted of my mother videotaping a few of us standing around with our trophies. I’m in the center of the picture, flanked by my teammates. At the beginning of a very brief interview, my eyes turn toward the camera and I appear to listen to a question. My smile quickly grows to my ears and I shrug with more than a twinkle of cockiness in my eyes that screams, “Of course I knew they were going in!” Everyone laughs.
The pattern begins with my very first memory. It is the story of the last Christmas party my parents ever hosted. There’s a reason it was their last party.
They had invited friends from both the office and the neighborhood to share in a little holiday cheer. After decking the halls and preparing the provisions, my parents were confronted with the challenge of what to do with their son during the festivities. I was nearly three years old and would be alert and active at the designated hour, so my parents found a chaperone for me. He was charged with keeping me quiet and content so that I would be seen and not heard. He led by example.
He was a gingerbread man. My parents knew their son. It has never taken much to entertain me.
He was a rather substantial gingerbread man, requiring both of my hands and most of my attention. I carried him carefully as I bobbed and weaved among the slacks and skirts of the assorted guests. Eventually we ran into a co-worker of my father’s named Harry. There’s a reason that I know his name.
He looked down at us with a gentle smile. “Whaddya got there?” he asked me.
I stared at my companion and held him forward for observation, but apparently Harry’s vision was a little hazy beyond the limits of his reach, so he extended his hand and inquired, “Can I see it?”
I looked at the gingerbread man and then back to Harry. If my chaperone could speak, he probably would have advised against this action. Even a cookie could have read the now mischievous smile creasing Harry’s face.
Being slightly less intelligent than a snack, I smiled up at Harry and handed him my gingerbread man. His grin grew more devilish; mine shrank in response. With a crocodilian chomp, Harry swiftly and suddenly deprived the defenseless cookie of its cranium. My mouth dropped open, but the next sound didn’t come from me. It didn’t come from Harry. It came from across the room and it’s the reason I know the name of the gingerbread assassin. It was my mother’s voice, flying towards my tormentor like a furious arrow –
“HAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Harry never again entered within the four walls of our home. I suspect he never again came within four miles of our town. My mother was his judge, jury, and – if he dared cross her child again – she was fully willing to be executioner. Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned, but a mother pissed must be a close second.
There’s a reason I love my mother.
****
In retrospect, it seems that a strange and wonderful conspiracy was at work. I had been hired as a counselor at a local summer camp. Upon accepting the position, I had been informed that I would be receiving a packet of information that would include details on an upcoming orientation session. A few weeks passed. On the Monday prior to the beginning of camp, I received a call from my new boss asking me to come to his office. When I arrived, he sternly questioned my absence from the previous weekend’s orientation. I responded that I had not been notified; I had not received the promised packet in the mail. He looked at me skeptically and paused to deeply and dramatically fill his lungs.
Just before that air was unleashed in an employment-ending harangue, an assistant walked in with a familiar package. It was my orientation materials, contained in an envelope carrying a stamp and my name, but no address. All was forgiven. That concern evaporated. Unfortunately for me, a new one emerged – in seven days I was going to be piloting a squadron of twenty kids without a map or any whisper of which way to go.
My lack of training was compounded by another problem – my wisdom teeth were removed on Thursday, only four days prior to the beginning of camp. The procedure was successful, but one of the teeth proved particularly stubborn and caused an unusual amount of swelling and soreness. As a result, when the calendar flipped to the following Monday, I found speaking to be a highly uncomfortable exercise. Screaming was out of the question.
So on that sweltering June morning, I had twenty kids, no voice, and no clue. But one of the numerous ways in which I have been fortunate over the course of my days is that a great number of guardian angels have appeared in my life just when I needed them most. Once when my sister asked me why I celebrate Christmas, as I am highly skeptical of organized religion, I explained that it was the time of year when I was grateful for my angels. If any is first among them, this is the girl.
I remember where we were standing when we first met. I was in a hallway near the camp directors’ office. I was distracted by my anxiety and my swollen jaw, but I when I looked up, I found her smiling at me. It worked then and it’s worked every smile since – my tense glare relaxed and I smiled back at her. She chirped, “I’m Katie – I’m gonna be your C.I.T.”
I don’t remember if I understood what a C.I.T. was at the time – I can tell you now that it stands for Counselor-in-Training and our titles should have been reversed – and I don’t remember too many details about that day. I remember feeling foolish early and often. I remember asking Katie which was the best way to get the kids to the pool and her eyes meeting mine with a look that said, “You don’t even know that?” But I remember her then patiently steering me to where I was supposed to be. I remember being in awe of her unflagging energy and her engaging sense of humor – she never stopped and I never stopped laughing. What does it say that it was probably one of the most stressful days of my life to that point and nearly all that I remember is laughing?
Is there a better gift?
When I got home, I was exhausted from the stress, exhausted from the heat, and exhausted from chasing kids around all day. I walked into the family room of my parents’ home. I didn’t bother with the couch. I simply collapsed on the floor, arms and legs splayed as if creating an indoor snow angel. I finally summoned the will to speak and announced to my parents:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KfCWYAmHyFI
“I love this girl!”
In one way or another, I have since the day I met her. In one way or another, I suspect I always will.
****
I do not believe that anything is inevitable.
I know that it is possible that when Harry decapitated my gingerbread companion, it could’ve escaped the notice of my parents. I could have cried and screamed while a circle of adults laughed and pointed. I could have run sobbing from the room until I found a bedroom or a closet or just a quiet corner. I suspect that my ability to trust unfamiliar people was severely damaged that day; there’s no reason that my faith in my parents couldn’t have suffered, too.
I know that it is possible that I could have properly received the camp orientation materials and attended the weekend retreat where the basics of camp were explained and the camaraderie among counselors created. The removal of my wisdom teeth could have – and should have – been scheduled for another time. I could have been assigned to another group with another set of counselors. I would have never been forced to trust Katie as completely as I did from the very beginning. That summer could have passed with us only being vaguely aware of each other. There’s no reason that we had to become anything other than co-workers.
I know that I should’ve missed those free throws. If I had, I might have found myself alone on the bench, head buried in my hands while my mother set fire to the film. My teammates would’ve been consoled by their separate families, rather than congregating around me in celebration. I do not possess any special aptitude for the game – no particular physical gift would have recommended me to basketball. I would’ve been better suited to soccer, tennis, gymnastics, baseball – I would’ve been better at just about any other physical endeavor. There’s no reason it had to be basketball.
The lesson revealed by these experiences is that the real estate of my heart is not rented. It is owned. Once someone or something possesses a piece of it, it is theirs for as long as that heart beats. For better or worse, it is simply the way that I am constructed. I love for a lifetime. The pattern of these three moments is that from those points forward, I never questioned my affection for those three things. It grew, it changed, it evolved – whether I wanted it to or not – but it never wavered. You can doubt whether they possessed the beauty that I perceived in them. You can suggest that those brilliant moments only blinded me to their faults. You might even get me to understand your perspective. But you won’t get me to change mine – not on them. Such is the power of faith.
So when you look at that little boy with his trophy, laughing with his teammates, see it for what it really is. That boy is hooked. That boy is addicted.
Look again at that smile.
That boy is in love.
****
