A Time to Dance/A Time to Embrace (68 page)

It was happening again. Everyone was looking to her to save the moment, to speak something encouraging and upbeat that would give the rest of them permission to cheer up. But this time she wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t Jo’s fault. She and Denny had meant well with the gloves. One day very soon they’d probably come in handy.

But right now—with Christmas knocking on the door—Abby didn’t want a reminder of John’s handicap. She wanted packages of sweaters and scarves and cologne. Favorite books and CDs and candy.

Not gloves that would make it more comfortable to get around in a wheelchair.

When she couldn’t think of anything to say, Nicole spoke up. “Jo, they’re perfect.” She sniffed and wiped at a tear. “I think we’re all a little sad that Daddy needs them. But still . . . they were very thoughtful.”

“Definitely.” John held up his hands, admiring them.

“Well, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” Jo’s chin dropped a bit. “Just wanted to keep his hands nice.”

Sean stood and moved next to John. “They’re cool, Dad. Can I wear them when I ride my bike?”

The group laughed and the tension dissipated as quickly as it had built. Abby exhaled softly. She was grateful. Her bank account of ways to look at John’s situation in a positive light was running frightfully low.

And come spring, when John should be out on the football field running laps with his players, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have anything positive left to say at all.

Even if everyone she knew was counting on her.

John was the only one awake. He was staring out the front window thinking of Christmases past, when he heard a sound.

“Dad?” It was Sean. The boy’s quiet footsteps approached from behind.

John turned and found his son’s eyes in the dark. “I thought you were sleeping.” He held an arm out, and Sean came to him.

“I can’t.”

Only then did John realize his younger son was crying. “Hey, buddy, what’s wrong? You’re not supposed to cry on Christmas Eve.”

“I . . . I feel like everything’s a mess.”

John’s heart broke for the boy. How little time they’d spent together since the accident . . . yet certainly the changes in their lives were affecting him, too. Obviously more than John had realized. “You mean because of my legs?”

Sean hung his head, his lips pursed. Even in the shadowy moonlight John could see anger in the young boy’s eyes. “It isn’t
fair,
Dad!”

John waited. Sean had always needed more time than their other children to share his feelings. Whatever torment the boy had gone through since the accident, John was grateful he was finally sharing his heart. “I’m listening.”

“I know I shouldn’t be thinking about myself.” He shrugged and wiped at his eyes. “You’re the one hurt. But still . . .”

“Still what?”

Sean lifted his eyes and met John’s straight on. “What about
my
dreams, Dad? Have you thought about that?”

John wasn’t sure what his son meant. “Your dreams?”

“Yeah.” The boy crossed his arms, and it looked like he was barely containing the struggle within. “You coached Kade until he was a senior, but what about me? I’ll be at Marion High in two years, remember? How can I play football for someone else?”

Realization washed over John’s soul. Of course . . . why hadn’t he thought about this before? In his busyness with rehabilitation and coming to grips with his altered life, John hadn’t thought once about how his injury might affect Sean. They’d always talked about how John would coach Sean, too, the same way he’d coached Kade. But John hadn’t known until now how much the boy had counted on the arrangement. Sean was only in sixth grade. To John, his younger son’s football days seemed light-years away.

But to an eleven-year-old boy . . . they were right around the corner.

“Sean—” John tightened his hand around Sean’s waist and hugged him closer—“I’m so sorry, buddy.”

Looking more like a child than he had in years, Sean hung his head and wept. They were tears John understood, tears of sorrow and frustration and guilt at what he obviously thought were selfish feelings. This time when he looked up, his eyes pleaded with John. “Didn’t you hear Kade tonight? You can coach in a wheelchair, Dad. There’s no rule against it or anything.”

John gave the boy a sad smile. The situation was so much more complicated than that. But right now his son didn’t need to hear a list of specifics and details. He needed a reason to believe things were going to be okay, that life would somehow, someway be good again even if he had to let go of this boyhood dream of his.
Give me something
to say, God . . . something that’ll restore the peace in his heart . . .

Then it hit him. He cleared his throat. “I’ll always be your coach, Sean. Whether I’m out there on the field or not.”

Something changed in his son’s expression. The anger and sadness wasn’t gone exactly, but his gaze held the beginning of hope. “Really?”

“Of course. We’ll work out together . . . learn plays together.” John felt his enthusiasm building. It was true. He might hang up his Marion High whistle, but he’d never stop coaching his boys. Especially Sean, who had so many years of football ahead. “I’ll teach you everything I taught Kade.”

Sean stood a little straighter. The worry lines across his forehead relaxed some. “Even in a wheelchair?”

“Even in a wheelchair.”

For a moment neither of them said anything, then Sean put his hand on John’s shoulder and sucked in a quick breath. “Can I tell you something, Dad?”

John reached up and tousled the boy’s sandy blond hair. “Anything.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t die.”

Tears stung at John’s eyes. Again he was struck by how little he and Sean had talked lately. They needed this . . . this and many more times like it. He grinned. “Me, too, buddy.”

Sean leaned down and hugged him, and they held each other for a long while. Finally Sean stood up and yawned. “Well . . . I guess I’ll go back to bed.”

“Yeah . . . don’t wanna catch Santa Claus sneaking around the living room.”

The boy’s giggle was like an infusion in John’s soul.
Thank You,
God . . . thank You for this time with my son
.

“G’night, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you, too. See you in the morning.”

Sean left, and for a long while John sat there, pondering their conversation. Sean would be a joy to coach, as quick and easy to teach as Kade had been. And John would most certainly make good on his promise, working with the boy whenever they had a chance. Not just because Sean had always wanted to learn from him, but because he finally understood.

Even though he was about to resign from coaching the Eagles, as long as he had Sean, he would still be a coach.

And that, all by itself, was the greatest Christmas present anyone could have given him.

Twenty-two

J
OHN HAD BEEN DREADING THE MOMENT ALL WINTER
.

By the first week of March, when grass began poking through the melting snow, he knew it was time. He hadn’t heard from Herman Lutz or any of the other school administrators, but there was no point waiting another day. This was the beginning of the academic hiring period, and the school officials deserved to know. They weren’t going to fire him—he’d guessed that much after a few conversations with other teachers. Not this year, anyway.

“They’re worried about how it would look,” one of the math teachers had told him. The man had overheard Herman Lutz talking with the principal in the office one day in January. “They said the public would come unglued if the school fired you now. Just a few months after you’d been paralyzed.”

So the administration was willing to wait a year, but they still wanted him gone. Still didn’t trust his character enough to believe he never would have allowed his players to drink or race cars if he’d known it was happening. And they still were willing to bow to the complaints of a few parents, rather than support him and the work he’d done at Marion High.

Yes, it was time to resign.

John asked Abby to help him dress warmly that day, two pairs of sweats and an extra sweatshirt. Then he bundled into his warmest jacket and grabbed his laptop computer.

“I’ve got a letter to write.” He winked at Abby.

She waited a moment before answering him. “Okay. I’ll be here if you need me.”

He smiled, but it didn’t fool her. By the time he moved out the door and into the backyard, they both had tears in their eyes. John stopped and surveyed the path ahead of him. Before the first snow, they’d hired a contractor to pour a cement pathway to the pier. Now it was cleared and salted, surrounded by remnants of ice on either side.

John filled his lungs with the sweet air of early spring. His therapy still hadn’t yielded the results he prayed for, but he’d learned to be more independent. He could get to the pier by himself now. The doctor had prescribed a new chair for him, one with a firm brake in hand’s reach. And his upper body was stronger than before, strong enough to propel himself up hills and ramp-ways.

Carrying his laptop on his knees, he made his way almost to the end of the pier where he set the brake firmly in place. As he opened the computer, he caught sight of his legs. They’d wasted away, just like the therapist had said. Before the accident they’d been twice the size of Kade’s. Now they were smaller, thinner, and John knew it wouldn’t be long until they were little more than skin and bones.

He flipped the computer screen up, hit the start button, and stared at the keyboard. When the program was ready, he opened a new document and waited, his fingers poised over the keys. What was he supposed to say? How could he put into words that he was ready to give up his lifelong passion?

He began to type.

To whom it may concern: This is to inform you that I am hereby
resigning as varsity football coach at Marion High. As you know, I’ve been
the Eagles coach since the school opened in 1985. In that time, I . . .

His fingers stopped.

In that time . . .

So much had happened since he’d taken the job at Marion. And even before that. When had he fallen in love with the game anyway? His eyes drifted up from the screen and gazed out across the lake. Wasn’t it when he was just a baby? There were pictures of him holding a football before he could crawl.

Images flooded his mind, memories he hadn’t walked through in more than a decade.

His dad’s life had revolved around the game, much like Abby’s father’s always had. The two men had played at University of Michigan, where they’d become best friends.

John’s father had gone into banking after college, but not Abby’s. He’d coached the game, too.

“It’s in my blood.” He always grinned when he said that. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I wasn’t around football.”

That’s how it had been for John. It didn’t matter that his father rarely talked about his prowess on the field. When John was old enough to wear a uniform, he begged his parents to sign him up. From the moment he took his first down as a player, John knew he’d play the game as long as he lived.

An image came to him then . . . him and his family visiting Abby and her parents at their lakeside home in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. He’d met Abby before, but that year he was seventeen and a senior in high school. She was a freshman, just fourteen.

But she was a football coach’s daughter, and it showed in everything she did. She could throw and catch a ball better than most boys her age, and the two of them spent hours barefoot on the beach tossing the pigskin back and forth.

“You’re not so bad for a girl,” John had teased her.

She had held her head a bit higher. Older boys hadn’t intimidated her, not when her father coached sixty of them every year at the high school. John knew the team often hung out at Coach Chapman’s house, playing on the lake or eating barbecued chicken with her family.

Abby’s response that afternoon was something that rang clear in his memory. She had stared at John, her eyes dancing. “And you’re not so bad for a
boy.”

John had laughed hard, hard enough that eventually he took off after her, tickling her and letting her believe she could outrun him. The truth was he could run like the wind back then. Like his father, John had become a great quarterback and was being pursued by a dozen major universities—including their fathers’ alma mater, Michigan.

One night that summer, the two families brought blankets down to the sandy shoreline and Abby’s father built a bonfire. They sang songs about God. Not the usual silly campfire songs about chickens or trains comin’ round the mountain, but sweet songs about peace and joy and love and a God who cared deeply for all of them. When the songs ended and the adults were lost in their own conversation, John moved next to Abby and poked her with his elbow.

“You got a boyfriend, little Miss Abby Chapman?” He grinned at her, imagining her in five years or ten. When she’d grown up some.

Again she kept her cool. “I don’t need a boyfriend.” She bumped his bare foot with her own.

He nudged her back. “That so?” A grin spread across his face.

“Yes.” Her head raised another notch and she leveled her gaze straight at him. “Boys can be very immature.” She studied him for a moment. “Let me guess . . . you’ve got a different girlfriend every week, right? That’s how it is with Dad’s quarterbacks.”

John laughed out loud before he looked at her again and answered her question. “I guess I’m different.”

Abby’s eyes grew wide in mock amazement. “What? John Reynolds has no girlfriend?”

He reached for the football—one was seldom more than an arm’s length away that entire summer—and tossed it lightly in the air a few times.
“This
is my girlfriend.”

Abby nodded, eyes twinkling. “She’ll make a great prom date, I’m sure.”

He pushed her foot again and lowered his eyes with a wink. “Shhh. You’ll offend her.”

John blinked, and the memory disappeared.

After that summer, John was certain he would marry Abby Chapman one day. It wasn’t something he made a conscious decision about, like deciding what college to attend or what discipline to major in. Rather it was something that grew from his heart, a truth that simply was.