Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns
If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…
I am nesting. On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with…
I’ve heard that life is like a highway. And it definitely seems like that sometimes. The pace of life swirls around me at dizzying speeds. We’re all so busy. In such a hurry. Always somewhere to be, something else to do. I’m a get-to-the-point, get-there-quick kind of girl. I don’t like to waste time on…
“Oh, no.”
My husband uttered those words minutes after waking up and per his usual morning routine, logging on to ESPN’s Web site for the morning’s sports news. Whenever he says, “Oh, no” I think something must have happened in our family or to a close friend or something. I forget that in some cases, sports is like family to him. “The Tribune is reporting that Ronnie died,” he said.
“Ron Santo?” I asked in disbelief. I knew that must have been who he was talking about. There are no other “Ronnie”s in our life.
Though I never met him, I felt a bit of grief come over me. And a longing to be in Illinois. I prefer to grieve with those who grieve and in Illinois we would find no shortage of baseball fans grieving this loss. In Pennsylvania, we might find a handful of fellow Cubs fans who will miss the fun Santo provided to radio listeners. Mostly, though, we will process this loss alone. And the grief may not be as heavy as it would be if we were in Illinois.
He wasn’t family or a close friend, so maybe it seems weird to be affected by his death, but anyone who listened to radio broadcasts of Cubs games felt a connection to Ron. His whole heart and soul was in every game, even if they were losing by 10 or mathematically out of the pennant race by July. He lived and breathed the Cubs. Now the Cubs will have to go on without him.
What saddens me most about his death is all the accomplishments he won’t get to see. He died without seeing the Cubs win a World Series. He died without being voted into the Hall of Fame. Those things may yet happen, but he won’t be around to celebrate them.
The Bible has its own “Hall of Fame” in Hebrews 11. The writer of the book lists people who accomplished great things for God, who suffered great things for Him. Yet, it says this about them: “These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised.” (Hebrews 11:39)
Seems unfair, right? To live a life of faithfulness and service and never see the end result.
Hebrews also says this: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see” (11:1) and “without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him.” (11:6)
Ron Santo epitomizes faith to me. I don’t know his personal beliefs about God, Jesus or heaven, but in terms of the Cubs, he had faith in the tough times. He never gave up on them. He faithfully did his job day after day, believing that someday the reward would come. Sure, he had his ups and downs. He was openly disappointed about the close calls, the failed seasons and the mistakes. But that didn’t stop his faith in the Cubbies.
I am a Cubs fan, but I don’t pin my hopes on them for anything. My hope is in the living God, the Lord Jesus Christ, who is infinitely more faithful than a sports team could ever be. (That feels like the world’s biggest understatement.) But I’m humbled by the faith of this baseball legend, wholly committed, fiercely loyal to his team. My faith in God should be as such, whether I ever see the reward this side of heaven or not.
A year ago, you stole my heart, and we’d only just met. You were long-awaited, much-anticipated, already loved. We didn’t know for sure if you’d be a girl or a boy; we welcomed the surprise. Your birth was not as smooth as we expected or hoped, but you arrived, safe, healthy and BIG. That last part hasn’t changed. You were off to the races on your growth from Day 1. People speculate that you’ll be a football player because of your size. Some days, like the ones where you knock everything in sight with your head, I wonder, too. Whether you are or aren’t won’t matter. Still, it’s fun sometimes to wonder what you’ll be like as you get older.
But I get ahead of myself. Today, it’s about the first year of your life. We’ll have many years, God willing, to talk about the rest of the years of your life.
It would be impossible for me to pick what I love most about you. Even after a year, I hardly know you. But I also know you better than anyone else. The bond between a mother and child — an indescribable sweetness I never knew existed before you and your sister came into our life. But this smile, it’s up there on the list. People are always saying what a happy baby you are. I can’t disagree with them. Even when you fuss, it’s for a good reason and is usually easily solved. Your face is so expressive. I can’t imagine you have any idea what you’re holding, but it’s colorful and squishy and your sister helped you pull it out of a brightly colored bag, so it must be the best. thing. ever. This smile could pull me out of a blue mood any day and it often has. You are my joy on this earth.
And you are bound to give me more trouble than I think I can handle. The look says it all. Oh, to be able to read your mind. Wait, I take that back. Soon enough, you’ll be telling me what you think. You have a mischievous streak that I will try to enjoy, even if it causes me extra work, extra strength, extra prayer. I will not cease to pray for you, even if the boy horror stories I hear from other mothers never show themselves in your life. I am not holding my breath.
It seemed only yesterday you were a baby, cuddled in my arms, sleeping soundly in the bassinet in our room. 
Now, look at you. Walking, trying to say words, following your sister around copying her every action. I fear that I’m going to wake up one morning and you’ll be a man, and I’ll wonder not only where the last year went but where the last 10 years, 15 years, 20 years went. And I’ll hope that I cherished them.
Too often I find myself not enjoying this season of motherhood as much as I think I should. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you and your sister. How could I not. You both are spontaneous and outgoing, two things I am not, and remind me so much of your father. I fell in love with him first, so naturally, when I see him in the two of you, I fall a little deeper in love with you and with him. Too mushy? OK, I’ll get back to what I was saying. Being your mom isn’t easy, but it’s the best job I’ve ever had. Because there are times like this:
When I’m laughing so hard, I can’t catch my breath. Your father has that effect on me. He can make the toughest times light. I can see, based on his influence with your sister, that I may find myself outnumbered in the silliness, outgoingness department. C’est la vie.
So, it’s your birthday. One year. You’re already outpacing your sister’s growth and development, which means I will be on my toes. A lot. You’ll be keeping me there. I can see the twinkle in your eye as you reach for your cake. Let me have it, mom.
Boy, did we.
Dig in to life, son. It’ll be messy, at times, but you’ll find a sweet reward in the end. I love you and can’t wait to see what the next year brings.
Mom
