"You Find Out Who Your Friends Are" is the title of a country and western song that was popular a few years back. I don't remember much about the song, except for this one line. I do remember that the point to the song was that you really find out who cares about you when times get rough. I understood that line and the song on an intellectual level. I have heard that sentiment, phrased in many different ways, many times in my life. The past two weeks have made me comprehend this simple statement on the deepest possible level. I believe that this discovery has opened my eyes to so many aspects of life and love and even God. Sometimes it is more important to discover the real friends of someone you love and that they are your friends too!
Two weeks ago, my sixteen year old son had a horrific accident on the soccer field. He dislocated his ankle and foot, broke his ankle and leg bone, and tore ligaments in his foot. This happened during a game against a team from out of town. The injury was extremely awful to see. With leg pointing north and south while the foot was pointing east and west (and down), it was very ugly and extremely painful for my son. The game was stopped, an ambulance called and the waiting began. We are fortunate to have an orthopedic surgeon dad on the team who is a dear friend as well. He was able to take charge and do all of the "right" things so my husband and I only had to worry about comforting him and holding ourselves together! It is funny how things like this are remembered in a slow motion fog of images. Snapshots of memories with no real continuity. A protective function of the brain? Probably. Godly comfort for the days ahead? Definitely.
The first thing that I remember after comforting my son on the ground for what seemed like hours (but was only a few minutes I am sure) is looking over at his teammates. They all have haunted, frightened looks on their faces--my first thought was that they looked like orphans who had been dropped off in an unfamiliar place. Lost. Several have tears on their faces. When I stand up to catch my breath and "regroup" my deteriorating composure, one of the guys from the team comes over and gives me a big bear hug. He tells me that the team has prayed for me and for my son. He tells me he loves me and my family. Two other guys hug me and the rest of the team come a bit closer. Image stops. Sixteen year old boys, stripped of their macho posturing and pride, have never looked more strong and beautiful.
I notice the other team, a big rival of our team from another city, is standing quietly and respectfully. Some look worried. Others look a bit scared. They look awkward like they would like to help but don't know what to do. I realize, at this moment, that both teams understand a great truth. The game is not important. The game has, for a while, become irrelevant. Coaches from both teams are running around, doing damage control, making sure that their boys are okay. Image stops. My son later receives cards from opposing team members and their parents. They find him on Facebook and send messages of encouragement. They challenge him to get better soon so they can play against him again. Sixteen year old boys, who don't even personally know my son, comfort my son in ways I can never match.
Suddenly, I think of my eleven year old daughter who is somewhere in the crowd and must be very frightened. I look up to see one of the moms from the team holding her hand. I am relieved. But then I see two of the boys from the team run over and take her by the hand to stand with the team. Image stops. They block her view of my son. They talk with her. I hear later that they make her an honorary team member and pray with her. Sixteen year old boys stand in the gap for their friend's parents and comfort his sister.
A day in the E.R. with lots of tests and painful procedures. I receive a text that the team manager is in the E.R. waiting room. I go out to talk with him and get some air. The waiting room is filled with players and friends, all wanting to know how my son is. All Saturday plans cancelled, they are standing vigil in the waiting room for news of his condition. They bring silly gifts and food--anything they can think of to cheer him. They take turns, two at a time, visiting with him for a few minutes. They make silly jokes and talk to my son even though he is not able to converse very well. I see their desire to make him smile, to distract him for a while. It works. Image stops. Sixteen year old boys and girls knowing what he needs and selflessly giving of themselves.
Surgery is still a blur. Blindly responding to texts from parents and kids alike. I recall a text from the team manager asking me if I want him to text the team and to tell them to stay away from the hospital for my son to rest. I refuse the request. They need to see that he is okay. They need to do something, anything, to help. Friends and teammates visit throughout the afternoon and evening, talking to each other over my son's bed. He is in and out of consciousness, but I see that he enjoys the banter and being surrounded by friends. Image stops. Sixteen year olds hanging out in a hospital room on a sunny Sunday afternoon, just to be there for a friend.
As a week and a half goes by, I see streams of kids visiting my son at home, just hanging out and talking about normal things. Encouraging him with talk of the spring high school soccer season. I see visitors bringing homework assignments and copies of notes (usually with funny comments in the margins to cheer my son) and volunteering assistance with his transition back to school. They bring gifts to make him laugh; a fake severed foot, stuffed baby toys, five pound bags of Skittles. They talk of normalcy-- a gift that his father and I cant give him. They plan a movie night at our house and bring their own snacks because they know i havent been to the supermarket. Image stops. These same sixteen year old boys (and girls) volunteer to carry his books and give him rides to school events.
My husband I have most certainly found out who our friends are throughout this ordeal. Visits, cards, meals, calls, offers of prayer, shoulders to cry on, ears to listen and much more. We feel truly blessed. However, the most valuable thing that we have discovered is who our son's friends are. Sixteen year olds that usually get blamed for all that is wrong in the world. Sixteen year old boys who are widely purported to be selfish, egotistical, uncaring and full of machismo. Sixteen year old boys who put a friend ahead of themselves and their needs. Sixteen year old boys who behaved better than many men in the face of such an event. Sixteen year old boys.
One of the questions that my son has asked during the early days of this injury is "Why me?" It is a typical response when hard times come. "Why didnt God protect me?" My son has been given a great gift. He has been given the opportunity to really KNOW his friends. He has had the opportunity to see his friends pouring out love and compassion on him and his family. I believe that, through this injury, God has given my son a window through which he can see Mankind at it's finest. While I don't imagine he is quite to the point of thanking God for this wonderful gift, I do believe that he was surprised and pleased to know that his friends had such compassion and real concern for him. I believe that he, too, will carry with him images of this event. I believe that he is, and will be, a better man and a better friend. You do find out who your real friends are, and sometimes they come in the form of (gasp!) sixteen year old boys!
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