Lightning Strikes

Whistle. “Throw-in, white.” 

While the ball bounced between some parents, toddlers and a couple dogs, our team reset for the next play. I don’t remember the score… we had a couple goals, they had a couple goals… something. It was our last game of the soccer tournament, and it was close. All I remember is what happened next. 

One of our players grabbed the ball and looked for a teammate. As soon as he threw it in, the referee whistled again for a foul, and then explained, “you lifted your back foot.” As the other side took possession, one of the dads on our team blew up. Big time. 

“HEY!!!!! REF!!!!! ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?!?” 

Everyone froze. His full-throated denunciation silenced the entire field. The distance between them wasn’t far, and I think there were side bets on whether he would cross the line for a tackle. The moment lingered, then passed. The ref whistled, and play started again. The dad scoffed, and his wife retreated from the scene.

I had coached my son’s soccer teams since he was six. I have more plaques with team photos than I have wall space in my home. The memories of being involved in my kids’ practices and games are priceless to me. We ran drills, practiced sets, goofed off, played games, celebrated with snacks, and ended the season with a parents-vs-kids game. Grateful. 

And as you can imagine, I’ve witnessed many “expressive moments” from parents. What is it about watching our kids play that fires us up? And, likely, how is it that it takes us back to our own childhood and the wounds that come with it? [that’s a 2.0 question right there]

As the years ticked by and my 6 year-old’s love for scoring goals clicked ever higher, we knew it was time for me to step down and let a club coach take over. He joined a local team with other strong players and was moved from the goal-scoring front lines to the back row on defense. We encouraged him to stick with it, and keep advocating for chances to play up front. For two seasons, he struggled, losing focus and missing fun. 

Then, May 2018, the end-of-season tournament. Our mediocre team had to win this game to advance. About midway through the first half, the coach put my son up front, and within a few minutes, he scored his first goal of the season. I still see his hands in the air as he ran back to midfield with his team chasing after. 

While questions of “who was that?” and “where’s he been all season?” were circulating on the parent’s sideline, inside my heart, I was over-filled with both pride and joy, as well as anger and resentment. “Great shot, buddy! You did it!” I was so excited for his success. And… “Take that, Coach! What the heck!?!?”

The frustration, layers and layers of it, from years and years, was gathering like a summer thunderstorm. 

At the start of the second half, my son was relegated to the back row again. Like the static crackling before lightning strikes, I held back, holding it in. And when the ball went out of bounds a few yards away, it was my son who picked it up to throw it in. And when he raised his back foot during the throw, it was my voice that exploded like thunder at the ref. “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!”

Yes, I’ve seen many expressions of poor parenting in sports. And here I am, at the front of the line holding the biggest trophy. How is it that I have within me both the potion that heals and the toxin that poisons? James 3:10, “Out of the same mouth comes blessing and cursing.” How am I not disqualified by my failures? How can my victories overcome my losses? What happens next in moments like this? 

Every situation has its own path out of the tempest. For me, I had to find that ref and apologize. I also experienced my son’s breaking point of “I’m never going to play soccer again.” Consequences. My son and I talked this story through again today, and after he read this draft, he said “I don’t remember you saying that at all.” [What? Suppressed trauma? How much can my kids take?] And yet, an opportunity too. “Dad, that’s a great story.” [Tender. An unexpected moment of connection with my teenager that happens so rarely.] 

Friend, we cannot escape the minefield of life. I have many other “lightning strike” stories, and you probably do too. But, we also have a God who specializes in restoration. While consequences are real, nothing in our life is wasted, and redemption can always rise in some form from the charred ashes after the lightning has passed. 

Which brings me to the final, smallest, least-used trail… bringing those stories into the light. Part of me did not want to share this. Part of me would rather live hidden behind the facades of success and apparent sinlessness. I’d rather be known as “Coach of the Year” with a wall of accolades to prove it. But I know there’s more to the story, more that needs “out,” moments where I fall way short. So this is me, not quite all sides of me, but closer. I’m grateful for my son and our continued story, and hopeful for all of us, that we will experience restoration in our brokenness. 

What parts of you need out? Is there a lightning-strike story you dare share with a brother or friend?

That’s a step on the path out of the storm, and I encourage you to take it. 

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Bart Lillie, Volunteer