I jotted this down several weeks ago, but I just found it buried in my purse and decided to share it here.
The sun is on the brink of breaking through the clouds and it makes the rain sparkle as it lightly falls on my boys. They are kicking a ball through the field by the milk barn at the farm where we get our milk. They are laughing and panting and trying out footwork. My husband is laughing and running with them. Their steps fall in unison and I see boyhood and brotherhood and a father's pride. A horse runs in from pasture sensing the urgency of play. He watches, his tail held high, with great interest, nearly wishing he had two fewer legs.
The younger brother follows, almost never catching the ball, but knowing the chase is important, is vital. On gravel, the elder slips, falls. He thinks about whether he should feel hurt. His little brother gives him some "forward and onward" pats on the back and butt. Then the younger falls and he knows this pain qualifies him as a player. He, too, is determined not to hurt, and a bond is formed. They become tougher together, for the love of a ball.
As a mother, I store these moments up in my heart. I think of Mary and Jesus. Jesus, who was once a boy. Only after ten minutes does the fun turn into stronger competition. The younger brother does not care. He would follow his brother anywhere, enduring torture, while loyal and full of grace. His world is so secure, in having a big brother. He loves his place.
As chill settles into our bones, we load our milk. The ball finds a puddle and the children hesitate to know which instructions deserve priority. How can they pick-up the soccer ball when soccer players are not allowed to use their hands? So they kick, and discover what it is to play when your socks are wet and your bones are cold. They play on with a new found glee at the work ahead of them. Daddy's practical admonitions about wet shoes are lost on them. They have discovered commitment and joy.
