One night when we had a million things going on, we left Kane with his 13-year old sister for just an hour or two. Not far into her first by-myself babysitting attempt, Kara had called her mother frantically describing a missing Kane.
“Did you look in our closet?”
Check
“What about under his bed?”
Check
“Outside? He loves to play with one of the dogs under a vehicle.”
Yes, ma’am
All of the options came up with nothing.
He wasn’t responding to playfulness: “OK, little stinker, come on out here.”
He didn’t budge on threats: “Do you want Mama or Daddy to spank you when they get home?”
And he was cold-hearted on emotional pleas: “I need you to come out – I’m so worried!”
When she did find him, it was after Jaclyn had yanked a boy off of a baseball practice early and was on her way home to help. He had crawled under his parents’ bed, wiggled to the wall underneath the headboard behind a box, and sat there motionless enjoying the chaos that he had created. When his sister had spotted the top of his head between the mattress and headboard and got him out, he came without argument or fight. Just a grin on his face, the physical result of the intrinsic satisfaction this game had brought no one but himself.
This morning brings us to six years without this guy. Six years of not sounding out letters and words. 72 months without him belting out his favorite song from the back seat. 2,094 days of no t-ball games, Christmas mornings, birthdays, meaningful hugs, sitting in timeouts, laughs, smiles, or anything.
Most days go on pretty normally. The longer the time lapses between then and now, thoughts of him have become mostly joyful and certainly easier to manage.
But, then . . . . he sneaks up on me.
Like he’s been tucked away in the perfect spot and can’t stand being hidden another minute.
Early morning on Tuesday, May 23rd, I left the house before 7:00. The charter bus taking us to play in the state baseball tournament was due to leave at 9:00, so I wanted to have everything together and waiting when the driver arrived. Milan High School has a strong baseball tradition, playing in five state tournaments before 2023, winning one of them and finishing runner-up in another. But, it had been 7 years since the last appearance. So, even the most veteran of players on this year’s team were in the 5th grade when the last trip took place.
Combine that with the fact that it is the first time I have advanced there as a coach and, needless to say, I didn’t sleep a whole lot the night before. So, I expected to hit the ground running to have us logistically ready to make the trip as I turned in to the school drive.
After jumping out of the truck and gathering a few things from the baseball coaches’ office I started bringing equipment out to the parking lot. I then realized that I also needed to print something off. So, I headed back inside and plugged my laptop into the printer.
That’s when it happened.
I opened the laptop, typed in my password, and was greeted with this picture of my guy
It’s a picture from the first day of school, only a few weeks before he took his last breath. He is clearly thrilled with getting up early to take pictures with his siblings. I see it every day – it’s the background on my computer. But today, the image hits different.
He sneaks up on me.
My mind rushes with images of a now 8-year old Kane and what these last two years would have been like with him around. I can see him. . .
- Tagging along under me before games on the field
- Looking up to his two brothers in their uniforms
- Playing catch with Adam or Easton or Barton or any number of guys that I know would treat him like their own little brother
- Yelling out of frustration at a player or an umpire and being sent out of our dugout back to his Mama for it
- With a mouth colored purple or red or orange after talking Pop or Grandaddy into another popsicle or drink from the concession stand
So, I get still at my desk. Sitting in my baseball office. Preparing to lead my team to go to the state high school baseball tournament. And cry crocodile tears not dissimilar to so many times before.
Yes, I believe he dances now on the streets of gold.
Yes, I know that whatever stopped his body from working has been made perfect and whole.
Yes, I am so thankful for the time I did have with him – much more than I mourn at what I don’t.
And yes, I get great joy from knowing his name lives on as other families adopt with help from the company that bears his name.
But sometimes, I really just miss my son. . . .
Praise to God for the call to be Kane’s dad!
Praise for the promise to heal the brokenhearted and bind up my wounds! (Psalm 147:3)
Praise for the assurance to wipe every tear and to one day eliminate all sadness and mourning! (Rev. 21:4)
And praise for God supplying everything I need! (Phil. 4:19, Psalm 23)
I love you buddy. See you soon.
Scottish Invasion 