Trusting Dad

The X-rays clearly showed the finger hadn't healed.  The fracture was still there.  The look of pain on my son's face was not the result of the injury sustained.  It came when the verdict of "six more weeks to heal" was shared.  In the first week of basketball season.  The doctor seemed uncomfortable that I cried.  But he had no way of knowing about the weeks of preparation leading up to the season.  The quickness drills.  The hours of shooting hoops.  The hopes for success.  All hinging on those black and white picutres lying on the table. 

Then came the promise that the hand therapist would try to make a splint that would enable him to play.  Hope restored.  Then foreboding words of caution about what could happen if it didn't heal properly.  If it got hit by a ball or a player or a stumble.  I felt faint.  And still teary.

But the same determination that persisted through the quickness drills rebounded in optimism.  "I can play, Mom.  This splint will work great.  It's very protective." (Oh?  And how many years have you studied distal interphalangeal fractures???)  I wasn't so sure.  Not that the therapist didn't produce a great splint.  Not at all.  She did a wonderful job.  But all the warnings and shrugs of "we'll leave it up to you as to whether he can play...and when" left me shaky. 

So I did what every red-blooded, strong-minded, capable Mother would do in this situation.  I told him we'd have to ask Dad.

He went on to practice in the meantime, promising extreme care.  (right)  I finally reached Dad.  Who wasn't shaky or faint or teary in the least.  Absolute confidence - NO PLAY until the next set of x rays.  I didn't protest.  I knew he was right. 

But I still had to inform my point guard.  My starting point guard who had practiced on his own all summer. 

He came in sweaty and smiling.  "feels good to be back on the court".  I had a good supper ready.  Food helps everything, ya know. 

I delivered the verdict.  Dad said no.  And I agree.

God frequently speaks to me through my children.  This was one of those times.

My almost 6 feet tall little boy took the news like a man.  Like a man who trusts his dad...and his Father. No whining.  No arguing.  No pity party.

He trusts that his earthly Dad will always act in his best interest.  He will always do what's going to produce good for him.

Just like his Heavenly Dad.  And mine.  I hope when I am delivered crushing news that I will trust my Dad like Chip does his.