Family is a Team Sport

When I was 13 years old, my Grandpa Joe died just a few days before Christmas. The visitation and funeral were to be held an hour away in Darlington, Indiana, where my father had grown up.

While I was brushing my five-year-old sister’s hair the morning of the visitation, I saw something move.

I dug through her hair with the brush while she stood patiently. “Mom?” I called, not quite sure what to make of what I was seeing. “There are bugs in Heather’s hair.”

My mother, an immaculate housekeeper, said uncomplimentary things about public schools as we stripped the beds and cleaned out the closets, and wrapped all of our clothes in the dirty sheets. Every stuffed toy went in a pillowcase. The curtains, too, came down if they were washable. My mother called my Papaw Clark—her father—who came and loaded everything in the trunk of his gray Monte Carlo and took it to the laundromat. My father went down to the Hook’s drugstore on Stop 11 Road, and we all washed our hair with the stinking shampoo he brought back, and dried it with clean towels Papaw Clark provided.

Mom stood my sister in front of the refrigerator and took a photograph of that beautiful long blond hair, which hung to the small of Heather’s back. Then she cut it all off, and my father sat in the living room and combed through what was left with a fine-tooth comb.

Sometimes you’re just getting hit like that, from all directions at once. Christmas plus a death in the family is a double-dose of stress. Throwing in a case of head lice adds deep insult to the injury. In a situation like that, you need backup, and you need it right away.

At the beginning of this year, I took ten trips of more than 100 miles from my home in the space of one month. Some were planned trips—taking my older daughter back to school in Atlanta; taking my younger daughter to a basketball tournament. Some, though, were unplanned at the beginning of the year—trips for job interviews in other states. Every single trip required me to make plans for the kid who’s still in high school, for the dog, the mail, the garbage. I don’t live near my family, so it took a small army of friends—church friends, mostly—the Lord’s army, if you will—to make sure that the kid got to basketball practice, the dog got fed, the trash cans were brought up.

My family would have known how to help, in that situation, had they been closer. My church family knows how to step up, in that situation, and do the job. We have a shared goal, this objective of carrying each other over the shoals and not letting one another falter in the storms. It’s like a team sport, family is, and you need the things that make a good team: members who are dedicated to one another and to the team goals; good coaching; regular practices; and sometimes, the thing you need the most is a deep bench.

I don’t know how deep your bench is, but I hope it is all you need. If it isn’t, walk some people into your life. At church, you would find an army of people dedicated to helping others. In your neighborhood, unmet friends sit behind their doors. Even those you work with would reach out if they heard about your need. Be a friend, be a helper, be a family to someone, and let them be there for you.