GROWING PAINS, #6, RUNNING ON PROM NIGHT:

RUNNING ON PROM NIGHT

  What I don't want is for him to look back and say, "Dad didn't do what he thought was right."

It is 8:30 on prom night and I'm not feeling so good.  No, it's not that I'm having a bad date.  I'm not having a date at all.  I'm 43; I have never been to a prom and at this point I don't intend to go.  My son, though, who is 17, tall, good-looking, very popular, an all-state runner, and excellent student, very much wanted to go, but he didn't go either.  Right now as I begin to put my thoughts into the computer he is at his girl-friend's house, looking at her dress. 

In a way that is appropriate for a 17-year-old he loves her and she him.  She is a nice girl, cute in a pixie sort of way.  Except for the difference in height--if Chris lays on his back, his toe comes up to Nancy's waist--everyone says that they make a perfect couple.  But everyone knows that their difference in altitude is really not important. 

If anyone other than my hard-drive ever reads this article, by the time they get to this point they will be crying out, "Why?"  As I read these words on the screen I wonder if even some chip in this machine--built on logic as it is--is going to suddenly flash a message on the screen,

Does not compute.  Please provide justification.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach asks the same question, "Why?" 

It's not that I don't trust him.  I do.  A few weeks ago we showed the film, Sex Lies and the Truth, at our church.  At the end of the showing I asked the kids to sign a pledge card promising to maintain a standard of sexual purity.  He signed, and later told me that a week before, he and Nancy had been talking and had come to the point where they had made those promises to one another.  When he told me that, there was this little guy in my head pumping his arm, saying, "Yes, yes, YES!"

As you can imagine my son and I have had several conversations about tonight.  I wrote him a letter.  He was around for some of the conversations that I had with his older brother (Who is at the prom.  I'll explain in a minute.), when I tried my best to explain my reasoning.  Neither of them were impressed.

"Why?" you say, "Why are you doing this to him?"  I have asked myself the same question over and over.  I have problems with the sexual overtones of the modern dance, but can't say that I am absolutely opposed to dancing.  I know David and Meriam and others in the Bible danced.  Though I am sure that what they did is far different than what my son's friends will be doing tonight.  I pastor a church that has an official postion that says that those in positions of leadership are to abstain from dancing, and several other taboos.  I have gone on record as saying that that clause should be removed from our constitution.  I am quite sure that if my son went to the prom he would do more sitting than dancing.

Likewise, I have trouble with the music, mostly with the words to some of the songs.  Though my conclusion is that music itself is a neutral vehicle, I realize that some of the songs use that vehicle to push buttons that I don't want pushed in my son or his girl.  Still, I have realized long ago that I cannot isolate my sons from the "sounds of the world."  He can, and probably does on occasion, “tune it in,” dance or no dance.

The local school has done a good job of promoting an alcohol free event, and even if it were served I don'think Chris would drink any.

I have surveyed my mind again and again.  My background is one that matches the mentality of our church’s constitution--dancing is one of those things that Christians simply don't do.  I think I have pretty well sorted out my past, keeping the good stuff and throwing away the junk.  But, have I?  Could I be making my son pay a price because I am holding on to some vestige of my tradition?  I know that there are those who would look down on me if I were to let my son go to the prom.  There are those who would try to feed me some of my words spoken at a time when talk was cheap.  Again, I honestly don't think that is the reason.  In fact I think those who look down on me because of my present position out number my hypothetical detractors should I let him go.  It hurts me to think that Nancy, her parents, my older son, and who-knows-who-else think I am wierd.  I find myself almost getting paranoid about it.  "Are they talking about me?"

I still haven't answered the question, “Why?”  I don't have any one single reason.  I can't point to any absolute that I would violate if I let my son go or he would violate if he went.  But when I put the whole thing together I just couldn't say, "Sure, go ahead and go."  I wanted to.  A part of me regrets that I did not. 

Chris has returned from Nancy’s house; he’s out running.  He needs to get his training in, but I am not so foolish as to think that the only reason he is running is for the benifit of his legs and lungs.  Maybe I am wrong, but it was my call to make and I believe that I would be wrong to not call it the way I see it, even if I don't see it as clearly as I would like.

In less than a year when Chris turns eighteen, unless he does something really stupid in the mean time, I will turn over to him some of the decisions that I have been making for him.  I did that with his brother.  I have no doubt that when I tell Chris that the prom is his decision that he will do just as his older brother has done.  He will go.

I don't expect him to always make the same decisions that I would make.  I only expect him to carefully look at the situation, examine the scripture, pray and then do what he concludes is right, even if it is hard.  If I had done anything else tonight I would have failed in setting that example for my son.  I can stand for him to look back and say I think dad was wrong.  I don't want to be wrong, but I know it is inevitable that on occasion I will be.  What I don't want is for him to look back and say, "Dad didn't do what he thought was right."

That is why my son is out running instead of dancing.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

GROWING PAINS, #5, RUN KELLY, RUN

RUN KELLY RUN

By

Howard Merrell

Published in Bristol Herald Courier, Feb. 22, 1998

                By the time the young women who run the distance events began their last minute stretches, stride-outs and psych-ups, the track meet had taken on a certain subdued character of its own.  At any one time you could observe some athlete totally focused on giving his maximum exertion to his event, while nearby another participant would be taking a nap.  Groups of participants who had already competed earlier in the day stood around and talked.  Spectators were hot, hungry, and tired. Their attention to the events was sporadic.

            As the parent of a distance runner, I had become familiar with the pre-race ritual.  The routine had an almost religious regularity. Those of us who knew the liturgy could tell that the girls 1600 meter race would begin soon.

            The talk in the stands, among those of us who knew and cared, turned to: Who was fast? Who hadn’t been doing well? We wondered what kind of time the pre-race favorite, last year’s state champ, would have.  The parents and loyal fans were moving to places where they could see better and more effectively yell encouragement to their favorite runner.  Watches were cleared. The fans have their ritual, too.

            Then I heard it—not the real thing, only a weak imitation—from out of a group of fans I heard, “Run Kelly Run”. The three words uttered by a veteran fan brought instant chuckles and conversation from all of us who heard.

            “Is he here?”

            “I think he’s on the bleachers on the other side of the track.”

            “I wonder if we’ll hear him over here?”

            Those of us who knew him had no doubt he would be heard—maybe in the next county. Everyone else was soon convinced.

            The crack of the starter’s pistol had hardly died—the girls were still accelerating; the faster contestants had not yet distinguished themselves from the starting pack—when we hear the voice, the real thing.  It boomed across the infield with a power that defied one to not look for its source.  The voice, sort of like an articulate chainsaw, the two end words elongated for effect, the last slightly less than the first, “RUUUUN KELLY RUUUUN!”

            We were in the presence of a phenomenon, before whom lesser mortals had to shrink.  I am loud, and I often yell myself hoarse at sporting events, but this man is the Babe Ruth of cheering.  The Sultan of Chant!

                                                   RUN KELLY RUN—Page 2

            Like a fog horn on a stormy night, the chant repeatedly fills the track, the bleachers, the surrounding countryside.  The three words of encouragement so fill the air that it is difficult to find the point from which they emanate.  Just the other day I found the source.  I was near enough to him that I could hear not only the famous three words, but words of endearment and quiet encouragement he shared with his daughter when she ran near his seat—or standing place—or pacing area.  The famous chant came from the heart of a dad who loved his daughter so much that he was willing to make a spectacle of himself to help her run.  She chose to run.  He was going to do everything he could to see to it that she did it to the best of her ability.

            “Run Kelly Run!” was still echoing in my mind when I thought about the kid to whom I had given a thumbs up, a “Way to go!” after his event.  I remembered another youngster I had congratulated about a good finish. I wondered about the disappointed kid for whom it just hadn’t happened that day, or the one for whom everything had clicked—he had the performance of his life.

            Don’t get the idea that these are generic kids, made up to flesh out a story.  Each of them has a name.  Each of them is real.  Each participated in the same track meet as Kelly, but there was no one there for any of them.

            I had never seen a mom or dad there to yell for any of these kids.  Oh, there were those of us who seek to encourage them to run, throw or jump, but it isn’t the same.  It can’t be.  Our cheers are sincere, our wishes genuine, our desire to encourage, console, challenge is real.  I’m sure they appreciate the recognition, but I’m equally sure that all of it together wouldn’t measure up to one single heartfelt word of praise from someone who really cares today, cared yesterday, and will still care tomorrow.

            Kelly didn’t win that race.  She came in second, behind the state champ, but she ran a good race.  I am confident she did her best.  I don’t know Kelly or her dad, but I think she will continue to do so.

            I don’t know what kind of a father he is.  I only know that on race days he models something that our culture, our kids, could use a lot more of—parents who are willing to give their kids the priority in their lives that they desperately need and deserve.

            My bellowing friend went to the track meet to encourage his daughter to run.   In the process he encouraged me to be a better dad.

                                                         

                                                        RUN KELLY RUN—Page 3

Newspaper Footnote:  Howard Merrell doesn’t really know Kelly Rector’s father, V.T. Rector, III.   Merrell—from another town and rooting for another team—noticed Rector’s enthusiasm for his daughter.  Three words inspired this story and caused a stranger to re-examine his own role as a parent.  Rector, a graduate, former teacher and coach at Patrick Henry, has been an educator in Washington County, VA, since 1966.  He is currently principal at Rhea Valley Elementary.  Kelly, a 1995 graduate, was All-State in cross country and currently attends James Madison University.  She ran track the first two years but suffered a hip injury and no longer competes.

Footnote from HM:

As it says above I never really knew V. T. Rector.  Chris, my son who is a runner, and I used to refer to him as "Run Kelly Run."
At the meet that I mentioned in the story, somebody took a picture of V. T.  He was kind of hanging out over the railing of the bleachers where he had taken up residence.  The picture which was published with the article above, shows me in the background.
When V. T. died this past year, from complications related to Alzheimer's, the family invited me to read this story at his memorial service.  The service consisted mainly of tributes to V. T.  Kelly's older siblings told how he yelled the same way at football games, and even marching band competitions.  The picture is Kelly and me after the memorial service.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents