Joyce Smith - The Impossible: The Miraculous Story of a Mother’s Faith and Her Child’s Resurrection

Sunday, January 18, 2015

T he air hung thick with tension. Usually Living Word Christian Middle Schools gymnasium echoed with a cacophony of yells and cheers of students and siblings, parents shouting out advice, refs blowing whistles, and coaches screaming directions throughout a basketball game. But this game was quiet. No one was shouting or cheering. We heard only the sounds of the players talking with one another, the bounce of the ball hitting the wooden floor, and the screech of the players shoes as they maneuvered around the hoops. Our Eagles eighth-grade A team were deadlock-tied with the Duchesne Pioneers. We just couldnt get enough ahead. So far this season our team hadnt been doing well, so we had to get a win under our belt. But Duchesnes team didnt seem to want to let us win! For every point our team made, the Pioneers tied it. Eleven, eleven. Fifteen, fifteen. Twenty-two, twenty-two.

My eyes stayed glued to the black-haired, handsome, olive-skinned young man wearing the black, teal, and white uniform, with the number 4 displayed across his back. As the point guard and shooting guard, my son John called the plays, controlled the tempo of the game, and talked to the ref if one of the players had an issue. He was also the leading scorer for the team. Not bad for a kid standing tall at five feet four inches. To say I was proud of him would be the understatement of the year. I thought he hung the moon. Actually, I didnt think that; I knew it. But that wasnt to say I overlooked his quirks. And one of thosehis penchant for arguing with his coach over plays the coach called and then rolling his eyes in disgusthad gotten him benched the game before.

While I was glad he was back playing in this game, I knew John was still stinging from the previous games tension. But he stayed focused. His competitive streak was in full gear as he cut in and out, maneuvered, and ran around the floor with a vengeance. Basketball was his life. From the time he was three he had a basketball in his hands. All of his games were do-or-die for him.

Finally the game was nearing its endand still the teams were tied. My husband, Brian, and I were exhausted from the games tension, so I could only imagine what John and his teammates felt. The scoreboard read thirty-three to thirty-three, while the clock showed forty seconds left in the fourth quarter. All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, John captured the ball and ran down the court, dribbling toward the hoop. He pulled out a breakaway layup and shot. The ball soared through the air and landed with a swish.

Thirty-five to thirty-three.

Brian and I were on our feet, along with the other fifty to sixty people in the stands, erupting with the loudest cheers. Our Eagles were going to pull this off!

The clock ticked down while the Pioneers struggled to land a tying score, until finally the horn blew loudly, announcing the end of the game. Christian Middle School had won. And my son had made the winning basket.

The whole team jumped on one anotherhugging and shouting and laughing. Theyd worked so hard for this win; now it was time to celebrate. And they had Monday off school for the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday to do just that.

Brian and I walked down off the bleachers. We knew it would take time for the boys to settle enough to head back to the locker room and get changed before they were ready to leave, so we patiently waited off to the side. But John and two friends and teammates, Josh Rieger and Josh Sander, beelined straight toward us.

I groaned inwardly, knowing what they wanted. All weekend long, John had talked to me about wanting to go to Josh Riegers house to spend the night after the game. And all weekend long Id downplayed it, because I didnt want him to go. I couldnt explain why; I just had a weird feeling about it.

I didnt get ominous feelings often, but when I did, Id learned to listen to them because they always meant something bad was going to happen. One time in particular, when one of my older sons, Tom, was a freshman in high school, his football coach showed up at our front door and asked if Tom could join the team on a camping trip. Something about this coach did not sit right with me. He seemed nice enough, but I couldnt shake the uneasiness I felt about the situation, so I said no. Several months later the coach was arrested for molesting boys.

Please, Mrs. Smith! Please can John go? Let him spend the night. Pleeeease! The two Joshes had ganged up on Brian and me. They knew Brian was a pushover, so they had to lay it on thick to Mama.

Can I, Mom?Can I?

Everything within me wanted to shout no, to encircle his sweaty body in my arms and whisk him home to safetyfrom what, I didnt know. But I looked into my sweet boys big, beautiful, dark eyes filled with excitement. How could I say no to him? Theyd just won the game. They were good kids. Hed spent the night at Josh Riegers house plenty of times. Joshs family were good people, and his parents, Kurt and Cindy, were responsible and attentive. I liked them and trusted them with John. And John loved going over there.

Im sure Im just being overly protective, I decided. I looked at these fourteen-year-old boys who stood in front of me, so eager to extend their celebration and have a little fun down time. Joyce, you cannot be a stick in the mud. You cant be that mom.

Mom? John needed an answer.

I sighed and nodded, against my better judgment, knowing I couldnt deny that kid something so simple, and sure I was overreacting to the uneasiness I felt. Okay. You can go.