My secondborn, male, aged 13 years, is sort of a natural at sports.
He is a lot like his father that way.
He has his weekly lesson usually late afternoon at the early part of the week. First thing the next morning he is eager to get to the course to hit a couple of buckets of golf balls, or to "play the course". Today he wanted to do both.
As he was getting out of the car, off to practice a game he loves, despite the rising temps, I was overcome with pride. I told him how proud I was of him just before he closed the door and a smile broke across his face. He and I both recognized the nerve I had hit upon, the underlying truth behind my words: If you want to be good at something, you have to spend time at it.
Practice Makes Perfect.Instinctively I knew it was a moment that needed to be emblazoned into our memory banks - seeing him there, happy to be practicing a sport he loves, reinforced by a mom who was sincerely proud of his efforts. After all, tomorrow he will tower above me, and have a man's voice, and will not need me to drive him to the golf course. Just the same, he will always need to know that I am proud of him at this very moment.
Driving off, I couldn't hold back the tears. My son: just yesterday he was a very silly toddler, my firstborn son, not able to follow in his sister's steps, making his way into young adulthood, not quite sure who he is at all times, finally honing in on a goal - golf. Though not in a morose way, I wished my dad, who loved golf like Peter loved the Lord, was sitting beside me in the car to share in the moment, or better yet, playing the course with his grandson.