A Father's Promise

Prologue

June, 1968

Chisos Basin

The late afternoon sun was setting through the Window as we arrived at our cottage in the Basin.  It had been a long drive.  Bouncing with pent up energy, and ignoring nature’s spectacular light show, my first words were, “I want to climb that!”  I was six years old, and I was pointing at the summit of Casa Grande.

The iconic symbol of Big Bend, this mountain dominates the Basin with towering vertical cliffs that appear unclimbable.  I begged Dad to let me try.  He wisely suggested other, more attainable goals.  We hiked Lost Mine Trail, rode horses to the Window, saw Boquillas, and scrambled into Santa Elena Canyon--all memories that I cherish.  But as we were leaving, I asked again, “What about that big flat-topped mountain?”

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “We’ll be back, and you will climb Casa Grande.”

But fate had a different plan. That early trip was the first of many outdoor adventures from the Rockies to the Blue Ridge, but my father passed away without ever returning to Big Bend.  That big flat-topped mountain remained unclimbed.

February 11, 2010

Late afternoon

South of Marathon

Approaching Persimmon Gap, the mountains have prepared their greeting.  To the east lies a steel-grey cloud mass--a "blue norther"--that is dumping record snow fall across much of north and west Texas.  To the west, accompanied by blue skies and fluffy white clouds, the sun is setting over the Santiago Range.

On this day, we have driven through that blizzard and have emerged safely on the other side.  In a matter of minutes, the temperature has risen twenty degrees.  Our mood changes with the weather, expectations rise.  Winter has turned to spring.

There is no chance of making the Basin before nightfall.  No longer rushed, we are free to soak it all in.  The air is clear, the colors crisp and sharp.  Blue and grey, black and white above mountains set aflame by the setting sun.

Clayton sees it first.  A rainbow, God’s symbol of promise, suspended atop a lone mountain.  On a day like this, it is easy to see why.  This promises to be a very special trip.

February 12, 2010

Casa Grande

High on the slopes of Casa Grande, ice still clings to the shady side of the cliffs.  It has been over forty years since I first saw this mountain with my father.  I am now perched on its flanks with my two sons: Will, eighteen, who carries his grandfather's name; and Clayton, fourteen, who is making his first trip to Big Bend.  In spite of the ice, we are warm from the exertion of climbing, and the cool breezes are a welcome relief.

The walls of Casa Grande rise as an impenetrable fortress, yet on this northeast face there is a breech.  Fractures in the cliff provide access to the summit.  Unfortunately, this approach is guarded by talus slopes, the unstable rock piles that seem to grow under mountain peaks.  From below it may look easy, but Clayton now understands why climbers hate talus--step, slide, step, slide--one step forward, two steps back.  We press on however, and soon reach the saddle at the top of the slope.

At this pass, the secret of Casa Grande is revealed.  What appear as solid cliffs from below are actually granite fins that surround a grassy bowl and shelter a remnant forest of Ponderosa Pine.  From here, it is a relatively easy stroll to the top.  We catch our breath, and marvel at the lush grass.  The boys do not need much rest, so they leap ahead.  The race to the summit is on!  I hustle to catch up, but they are young and strong.  Near the top, they pause, allowing me to join them, and together, the three of us take the last few steps to the summit. 

Under crystal blue skies, the view stretches into Mexico.  Two-thousand feet below us, our tent is a tiny dot. To the west, Burro Mesa is surrounded by the desert.  To the east, volcanic crags keep watch over Juniper Canyon.  And to the south, waves of rumpled mountains roll to Emory Peak and beyond.  This is a day we will remember for the rest of our lives.  My father’s promise has been fulfilled. 

Far to the north, over Green Gulch, a falcon soars on the wind, his feathers flashing in the sun. He glides toward us, cruising directly overhead.  My thoughts drift back to my Dad; this is not the end, but a new beginning.

Our father’s promise has taken us to new heights; a place where falcons soar, and the mountains go on forever.  From here all things are possible.  My eyes follow the falcon, now a distant speck on the horizon; “Yes!  Let’s go there!” 

With the boys’ excited chatter as a backdrop, we make our way back down.  The conversation turns to tonight’s grilled steak dinner.  Fueled by hunger, the descent passes quickly.  Back at camp, tired and full, we grow silent as another timeless sunset drops through the Window.

 

February 12, 2010

10:00 pm

Green Gulch

The stone profile of the Apache chief Alsate looms before us.  He stares silently at the heavens above him.  In the darkness, I have to remind myself that it is just a legend. The stillness is broken by an owl across the arroyo.  I laugh at myself as I nearly knock the camera off the tripod.  I am aware that the owl call was a favorite communication method of the Apache warrior.

This old ghost story only adds to an already perfect day. Filled with steak and blackberry cobbler, the boys and I have come to this dark overlook to photograph the night sky with my new camera.  The results are very promising.

Between exposures, I take advantage of a rare window of cell phone coverage to call my wife, the mother of these two boys.  I hear the love in her voice—she knows what this trip means to me. As I hang up, her unspoken promise remains.  The perfect day just became more perfect! 

February 13, 2010

Cattail Falls

The sun is warm on my face; almost too warm.  This morning I started out with three layers, I am now down to one.  The desert gravel crunches underneath my boots; sweat rolls down my back, and the smell of dust is in the air.  I have to remind myself that it is only February.

As the trail rounds a low shoulder of Carter Peak; the desert changes; I feel the breeze, smell the water, and hear the falls.  A new promise is in the air.  I am soon aware that I am no longer walking on rocks, but on soil--real soil.  A short scramble over boulders brought down by some ancient flash flood brings us to the plunge pool at the foot of Cattail Falls.

We eat lunch in the shade among the ferns and columbines, cooled by the breezes funneled off the Chisos through Cattail Canyon.  Oasis--it's the only word that fits.

February 14, 2010

Apache Canyon

We walk single file underneath a cloudless blue dome.  The view atop Burro Mesa stretches 360 degrees.  Ahead and to the right is the massive uplift of the Christmas Mountains.  Santa Elana Canyon and Mexico lie far off to the left.  And directly behind us, looking closer than they really are, loom the ever-present Chisos.  To a passing hawk we must look like mere specs on the landscape.

The temperature, which has been so wildly variable on this trip, is now absolutely perfect.  The warmth of the sun is balanced by the coolness of the air.  We walk in shirt-sleeves without sweating. 

Our goal on this day is not on the map; it is not well advertised.  The Park would prefer that we stay away.  But of course, that just makes it irresistible.

But Apache Canyon has been well known in these parts for over 12,000 years.  Flint from this quarry has been found on arrow tips throughout the Southwest.  How many Indians have walked this very trail?

At the canyon with flint shards covering the ground, I am once again reminded of my father, and how much he would have loved this spot.  But this is a new generation, and youth will not be denied.  On the return trip, Will finds a higher gear; I cannot keep up.  At one point, I see him crest a ridge nearly a half mile ahead of me.  When I make it back to the van, Will and Clayton are napping in the shade, waiting my arrival.  A third generation is here.  And the promise of Big Bend is before them.

 

THE NIGHT OF THE RODENTS

“Never let the facts get in the way of a good true story.”

--Jim Batten

My wife, Francie, is a wildlife rehabilitator.  She has a tender heart.  She is known as the "Squirrel Whisperer", and a fierce defender of woodland creatures everywhere.  But for at least one night, this was not the case.  Our first-born son, Will, was barely one-week old at the time.  And although I would never suggest that post-partum “issues” had anything to do with it, my sweet wife declared war on all rodents that night.  And I was drafted into the front lines of her army.   

That night started out peacefully.  The young parents finally had the new baby to sleep, and were hoping to get some much needed rest.  It was a tranquil domestic scene worthy of Norman Rockwell.  But not for long.  As expected, my slumber was soon interrupted; not by Will announcing that he was hungry, but by those three little words every husband loves to hear in the middle of the night, “Are you awake?”

"No."

And then the three words that always follow, "I hear something!"

"It's nothing, go back to sleep."

"It's in the curtains!"

"Must be the wind, go back to sleep."

"Wake up Bryan!  There's something in the house, and it's after our baby!"

Now awake through no choice of my own, I did hear a faint metallic clicking; "Tink-tink, Tink-tink.” I made one last bid to save what was left of my sleep, "Whatever it is it can’t be big enough to hurt anything."

"Bryan Hodges, you get up right now and see what it is!"

Reluctantly, I reached over and turned on the light.  Lying on my back, looking up and just a little behind gave me a perfect view into the mini-blinds covering the window by our bed.  From this position, I saw a small furry object doing a tight wire act across the mini-blinds; "Tink-tink, Tink-tink".  It disappeared behind the curtains, and then reappeared on top.

"What is it?"  She nervously inquired.

"A mouse."

"What's he doing up there?"

"Well it looks like a half-gainer off the curtain rod!"  Because at that exact moment our furry visitor launched himself out into space over the bed.  He landed on the floor and took off down the hall.  “Hey!  It’s raining rodents!” I said, trying to add a little levity to the situation.  The blood-curdling scream was the first clue that my lovely bride was not nearly as amused as I was.

"Kill it!"  She cried.

"With what?"

"Anything, just kill it!"

"How 'bout I call an exterminator in the morning?"

"No!  That rat is after my baby!"

I noticed that "our baby" had become "her baby" but I decided that now was not the time to bring it up. 

"It's just a little mouse, and it's not after anybody."  I protested.

"Bryan Hodges, get up and save my baby from that rat!"

My full name had been used twice in the span of 10 seconds--never a good sign.  It was clear that Momma Bear felt her cub was threatened, and if Papa Bear ever wanted to sleep in the nice warm cave again, he needed to do something—Right now!

As I stumbled down the hall, there he was--right in the middle of the floor, daring me to chase him. I dove as he deftly sidestepped my grasp and bounded into the spare bedroom.  The chase was on!  The Mighty Hunter was on the trail of Big Game!  I slammed the door shut, and shoved a towel in the crack at the bottom of the door.  That oughta hold him while I figure out what to do.

I took a minute to clear my head and to evaluate my opponent.  He had a huge advantage in speed and maneuverability; I had the brains.  But what I needed was a weapon.  So I went to the garage and grabbed a boat oar.

I’m not sure what possessed me to choose a boat oar, but it is worth pointing out that in my younger days I played baseball.  Back then I was known as a "slick fielding middle infielder.”  This was just a nice way of saying “He can’t hit, and he’s too slow to play the outfield." So in hindsight, this was probably not the wisest choice.

I entered the spare bedroom, clicked on the lamp, and readjusted the towel.  Now when I say "spare bedroom", what I really mean is a 10' x 8' glorified closet, with a twin bed, small table, and one lamp.  It was Man vs. Mouse in a winner take all cage match.  Only one was coming out alive!  Speed and agility against brains and a boat oar.  Game on!

I lowered my face to the floor and peered under the bed.  Not two feet away sat the vile creature that was out to get our baby.  No bigger than a ping-pong ball; with big round ears, a twitching nose, and long whiskers--he looked like he just stepped out of a Disney cartoon.

"Francie, come look at him.  He's not hurting anything, he's actually kinda cute."

"No he's not!  Quit stalling and kill it!"

All my efforts to reach a peaceful solution had failed.  The only way to restore domestic tranquility was to carry out my orders.  I removed the mattress, raised the boat oar and swung.  He jumped aside and ran into the corner.  Strike one!  I swung again, this time making solid contact--with an 8 x 10 framed photograph of my mother-in-law.  It broke into a million pieces. 

From the other side of the door I heard, "Did you kill it?"

"No, but I think your Mom's in critical condition!"

"Quit playing around and kill it!"

I was down to my last strike.  My manhood was being questioned.  I caught the glint of challenge in his eye.  He was mocking me!  My baseball instincts took over as I swung for the fences.  I felt the satisfying whack of solid contact as I drove something deep into left-center field.  This had double written all over it!  Unfortunately "it" was the desk lamp that was the lone source of illumination for the room.  I admired my Ruthian blast until it crashed into the wall.  Then the room went dark--really dark.  It occurred to me that you could add "superior night vision" to my opponent's list of advantages.  Just then I heard a faint noise.  It may have been the baby stirring, but I'm convinced that mouse was laughing at me!

Bumbling blindly in the dark, I pulled back the towel, and opened the door.  Seizing his chance, the sneaky little rodent made a mad dash for freedom--straight through my legs, and out the door.  Three swings and a half-dozen picture frames later, my still unscathed target was trapped between the sliding glass door and the kitchen table.  Unfortunately, Momma Bear now stood on the kitchen table; wearing snow boots, hiking up her night gown with one hand, and holding her sleeping cub with the other.  What could possibly go wrong?  Panting from the exertion, I raised my trusty weapon for one final blow.  Then I reached out my left hand and opened the door.  In a flash he disappeared into the night.

I shut the door, spun on my heels, shouldered the boat oar, and strolled past Francie; who was still standing on the kitchen table; and still holding the sleeping baby, blissfully unaware of the grave danger he had so narrowly escaped.

"That went well, don't ya think?  Goodnight!  Careful, don't step on the glass when you come to bed."

"Where are you going?"

"To bed."

"Is he dead?"

"Well not exactly, but he's gone."

"Then go kill it!"

Something about that just felt wrong. The mouse had proven a worthy adversary.  We were warriors, bonded by the life or death struggle we had both survived.  There was no honor in chasing a noble opponent who had honorably retreated from the field of battle.  Besides it was dark, and I was sleepy.  I played my trump card; “What would the neighbors think if they saw me wandering the streets in my underwear after midnight, with nothing but a flashlight and a boat oar?"

Even a post-partum Momma Bear would have to agree that I had a point, and soon this victorious warrior was back in bed feeling just a little smug.

But my sleep was filled with restless dreams.  Tiny rodents were doing high wire acts on the mini-blinds, and swinging Tarzan style from the cords.  “Tink-tink; Tink-tink.”  That noise was seeping into my consciousness.   Awake now, I laid still in the dark; “Tink-tink; Tink-tink.”  Francie reached over and turned on the light. She didn't say a word--her accusatory glare said it all. I looked straight up.  Two beady little eyes and a whiskered nose were peering down at me.  In the split second before he flung himself over the bed, (and I’m not making this up!), he winked at me; landed on the floor, and sprinted down the hallway.  Wearily, I stumbled after him, looking for my boat oar.

C. J. 2011 Baseball Photos

C. J. recently completed baseball for 2011.  In the Spring he played for the Robert E. Lee High School Freshman Team.

 

 

In the Summer he played for the Dallas Patriots ETx 16U.  There was a tournament every weekend in June and July.  Most in the Dallas area, with some in Austin.

 

A highlight was a trip to Stillwater, OK to play at Allie P. Reynolds Stadium on the campus of Oklahoma State University.  It was 112 degrees that weekend.

Another highlight was the tournament at QuikTrip Park, home of the Grand Prairie Air Hogs of the American Association.

It was a long hot summer with a lot of traveling, but we loved it!  The Patriots, who were all 15 years old playing in a 16 year old league  finished the summer season 20-19-1.

Coach Travis Chick pitched 9 seasons of pro ball 

with several teams including the Seattle Mariners.

The 2011 Dallas Patriots ETx 16U (Summer)

The Fall Team played a double header each Sunday, and completed the season 11-2.

C. J. with Josh Tomlin, pitcher for the Cleveland Indians, and part-time first base coach for the Patriots.

The 2011 Dallas Patriots ETx 16U (Fall)

Technical Info:  All images captured with a Canon 5D or 5D Mark II with 100-400 f/4.5-5.6 L USM lens.  Action photos were usually shot at 400 mm, at ISO 400, wide open, with shutter speeds between 1/1000 and 1/3200 sec.  All photos were processed in Adobe Lightroom 3.

College Football as Hope

“Hope is everything to the man who has nothing, and nothing to the man who has everything.  We will all find ourselves somewhere between those two extremes.”

--John Gilbert, Sr. Pastor FUMC Austin

College football has been in the news lately, most of it negative.  A tragic scandal brought down a legendary coach, and conference realignment threatens to shake the foundation of college football and its traditions.  One team has its own network; and another has a new conference.  Each school says they are “Doing what is best for the future."  Each school thinks the other is greedy.  College football has many problems. But instead I choose to focus on what is good and right in college football.  This is a story about college football as hope.

College football has always been big in my family, specifically, Texas Longhorn football.  My D ad graduated from the University of Texas after World War II, and brought up his two sons on stories of Bobby Lane, Tom Landry, and Tommy Nobis. The first game I remember attending in person was Texas vs. Arkansas in 1968.  I was 6 years old.  The Horns won 35-29.  After a slow start to the season, Texas unveiled their new wishbone offense lead by quarterback James Street.  This was their third consescutive win. 

The modest win streak continued to grow.  By season's end it stood at eight games, and Texas would represent the Southwest Conference in the Cotton Bowl against Tennessee.  My Dad got tickets to the game, but only two.  I had to stay home as he took Andy, my older brother.  I cried.  It would be the last time Dad would go to a game without me.

The 1969 season was full of hope and promise.  Coming off an impressive Bowl win, riding a nine game winning streak, and with an experienced leader at quarterback; big things were expected from the Horns.  This was the 100^th year of College Football, and this seven-year old was determined not to miss a minute of the action.  TV games were rare back then, so most Saturday afternoons found me sitting next to the radio.  Dad took us to see the SMU game, and the winning streak continued to grow.

By the final game of the season, Texas had climbed to Number 1 in the polls.  But that last game was in Fayetteville, Arkansas against the Number 2 Razorbacks.  A Cotton Bowl berth and a shot at the National Championship were on the line.  A national television audience would watch the country’s best offense against the country’s best defense in what was billed as “The Game of the Century.”  President Nixon would attend in person and present the winner with a “National Championship” trophy.

The cold grey day in Fayetteville matched the way the Longhorns played.  At the start of the fourth quarter, Texas trailed 14-0.  It was too much for my Dad; he couldn’t bear to watch. (Believe me; I come by this obsession honestly!)  He had to go to the back of the house, as Mom, Andy, and I stared silently at the TV hoping against all hope.

On the first play of the fourth quarter, James Street dropped back to pass, finding no open receivers, he tucked the ball and ran, straight up the middle of the field, 42 yards for a touchdown.  The screams from the living room brought my Dad running back down the hall.  (Apparently, he was feeling much better now!)  After the two-point conversion, the Horns trailed 14-8.  Hope came running back as fast as my Dad running down the hall.

But it wouldn’t be easy.  With less than 4 minutes to play, the score was still 14-8, and Texas faced a 4^th down and 3 from its own end of the field.  With everyone expecting a run, James Street dropped back to pass.  In the defining moment of his career, he threw a long pass to Randy Peschel streaking down the left sideline.  He caught it at the Arkansas 13-yard line.  Two plays later, Jim Berterlson scored, and the extra point gave the Horns a 15-14 win.  They had gambled it all, and won.

A couple of weeks later, on Christmas morning, I found that Santa had left a Cotton Bowl ticket in my stocking.  (Santa was able to pull off 4 tickets this time.)  On New Year’s Day I sat in the stands as James Street lead another come back, with yet another 4^th down pass.  Texas scored the winning touchdown with less than 2 minutes to play, and beat Notre Dame 21-17 to win the National Championship.  I was certain that my presence had made all the difference.

The 1970 season started out the same way.  We were at Memorial Stadium when a new Texas quarterback, Eddie Phillips, threw a 45-yard touchdown pass to Cotton Speyer with 20 seconds left to beat UCLA 20-17.  There was now no doubt that I was the good luck charm!

As the winning streak continued, Dad kept saying; “You know that they are going to lose one day.”  What did he know?  Surely he was delusional, because in my vast experience we had never lost.  NEVER!  No matter how bleak things appeared, the Longhorns always found a way.  ALWAYS!

For the rest of the season, nothing happened to challenge my 8-year old beliefs.  Texas steamrolled through the regular season 10-0, ranked Number 1 in the nation, and with another New Year’s Cotton Bowl date with Notre Dame.  The winning streak was now 30 games.

We didn’t have tickets this time, so we watched on TV as Texas fumbled 9 times and lost 24-11.  Even on the last play of the game, with 6 seconds left, I somehow still believed that we could and would win.  I cried for 3 days.  If only I had been there!

Much to my surprise, the sun did come up on January 2, 1971, and life and years moved on.  My brother and I grew up, and both went to school at UT. After graduation, I stayed in Austin and married Francie, a beautiful girl who understands all my obsessions, and loves me anyway.  Eventually we had two boys of our own; Will and Clay.

Each year I bought season football tickets, and my Dad and brother joined me for many great games, and later, my sons would join me.    Five times after 1970, Texas would end the season with only one loss.  Twice they had undefeated regular seasons, only to lose the National Championship in the Cotton Bowl.  The big game stayed just out of reach, but there was always hope.

In 2001 we had moved back to our home town, to be closer to family, but we still kept our season tickets.  That year, Texas had only to beat Colorado in the Big XII Championship Game to play for another National Championship.  We were there in Dallas as Texas fell 39-37 to a team they had beaten 41-7 earlier in the year.

The 2005 season was full of hope and promise.  Coming off an impressive Bowl win, riding a seven game winning streak, and with an experienced leader at quarterback; big things were expected from the Horns.  In early November, they were a perfect 9-0.  Francie and I took an anniversary trip to Austin to see the Kansas game.  (Yes, it was her idea.  And yes, she is amazing!)  The Horns cruised to a 66-14 win.

On the way back home, we stopped at Collin Street Bakery and picked up some of my Dad’s favorite egg bread.  It was late when we got into town, but Francie insisted that we stop by and see my folks on the way in, so that they could have toast for breakfast in the morning. Dad seemed happy to see us.  We talked about the trip and the game, and how this just might be the year.  We made plans for the Big XII Championship Game in Houston.  We had three tickets.  Just like old times, Dad, and his two sons were hoping to be there when the Horns punched their ticket to the National Championship Game.  But it was not to be.  This would be the last time that I ever saw my father standing.

Two days later I got a call from my brother; “Come to the Emergency Room.  Dad has had some sort of attack.”  When I got there, Dad was conscious, and alert.  He was calm, but in obvious pain.  The doctors were running tests under the assumption that this was a heart attack.  But he kept saying, “I can’t move my feet.”

It was late that night before they ruled out a heart attack.  Apparently there was something wrong with his spinal cord, but no one could say what it was.  Over the next few days Dad endured more tests.  It was determined that he had been bleeding into his spinal column.  The bleeding had stopped, but the paralysis was permanent.  He took the news as calmly as if we were discussing the weather.

But it was also becoming obvious that something was wrong with Mom.  We had noticed for several months that she had been forgetful, and would often repeat herself, but the stress of Dad’s illness hit her hard, she seemed disoriented, and confused.  Dad finally told us what we had suspected--Mom had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.  It was a double shock, and it was also clear that the disease was further along than anyone realized.

But the bad news was not over yet.  As a follow up to a routine physical, Francie’s doctor informed us that tests indicated she had a rare and usually fatal heart condition known as ARVD.  Pace makers could control it, but there was no cure.  She would need to do more tests, and we should also consider testing the boys since a parent has a 50% chance of passing the defect on to their children.  Since this disease has no symptoms, and since nothing could be done until further testing was complete, we chose not to further burden the rest of the family.

Dad remained in the Intensive Care Unit.  We would take Mom to see him every day. He would ask her how she was doing, and tell her that he was feeling better--anything to reassure her.  He would tell her little things to make her smile.  His focus was on her.  He stayed upbeat.  I never heard him complain. 

The time came for the Big XII Championship Game, the game we had planed as a father/son outing.  My brother and I didn’t feel that we could or should go. But Dad wouldn’t hear of it.  “I’ll be fine.” he said; “Besides there’s nothing you can do here anyway.”  So we found a friend with a spare ticket, and Andy, Will, Clay, and I rode with him to Houston to see Texas play Colorado.  This one was never in doubt.  Texas rolled to a 70-3 win, setting up the much anticipated match up with USC in the Rose Bowl.  But for me it was a hollow victory.

The next day I went to check on Dad and tell him about the game.  He managed a brief smile, and a quick “Hook ‘Em”, but not much more.  It was clear that he was getting tired. 

As December wore on, the paralysis began to affect Dad’s breathing, and he was placed on a ventilator. He remained calm, and in control, but I was racked with doubts.  How were we going to take care of two invalid parents?  What if I had to do it without Francie?  What if I had to do it without Will or Clay, or both? 

After one particularly difficult day, I remember collapsing in bed with a silent prayer; “Lord, thank you for helping me make it through another day.”  The next morning started with “Please Lord, give me the strength to make it through this day.”  And this became my ritual.  Right then, I could not even think about the future, it was beyond my control.  It was overwhelming.  For the first time in my life, I felt that hope had abandoned me.

As Dad’s condition continued to deteriorate, we spent as much time as possible with him. He told us to “hang on to each other.”  Many times he told me how proud he was of me.  He described Francie as a “rare jewel” and reminded me to always “treasure her.”  Even after the ventilator stole his ability to speak, he filled a spiral notebook with messages:  notes for his grandkids; information on insurance and finances; and even instructions on how to prune the rose bushes in the back yard.  The man who had spent a lifetime showing me how to live, was now showing me how to die.

My Dad died on December 23, 2005.  He remained conscious right up until the last few hours.  He squeezed every bit of life out of his final six weeks in the Intensive Care Unit.

Christmas was difficult that year, but after the funeral, we tried to get our life back to normal, back into a routine.  Mom was in a daze; she spoke very little, and did not cry much.  She was confused, and we were not sure how much she remembered.  She was still waiting for Bill to come home.

In times of grief you fall back into a routine; and do what is familiar, and what is comfortable.  When it came time for the Rose Bowl, we all gathered at Mom’s house to watch Texas take on USC for the National Championship.  My entire family along with my brother’s entire family was there.

The game was a wild back and forth affair.  Mom sat quietly through the whole thing.  With less than 7 minutes remaining USC scored to take a 12 point lead, I was resigned to the fact that Texas would come up short again.  I suppose I felt sorry for myself.  It figures! You would think that after the last two months at least something would go right! 

But Longhorn quarterback Vince Young was not wasting time feeling sorry for himself.  He quickly led the Horns down the field for a touchdown.  The Longhorns now trailed by 5, but there was only 4 minutes remaining, and the Longhorn defense had not stopped USC in the entire second half.  But facing a 4^th down and 2 at the Longhorn 45 yard line, USC went for it.  Two yards would win the Championship.  But the Longhorn defense held, and with less than 2 minutes left, Vince and the Longhorns had one last chance.  In that moment, it felt like hope came running back down the hall.  Suddenly, I was a seven year old boy again.

But it wouldn’t be easy.  With 26 seconds left, Texas faced a 4th down and 5 from the USC 9-yard line.  Texas’ play-by-play announcer Craig Way said it best as the Longhorns approached the line of scrimmage; “All the hopes, all the dreams for the National Championship come down to this play...”  Just like 1969, Vince dropped back to pass, and found no one open.  In the defining moment of his career, he tucked the ball and ran--untouched into the end zone.  As he crossed the goal line and the room erupted, my Mom screamed “Did he score?  Did he score?”  When she realized he had, she broke down and cried.  She remembered. 

After that game, we continued to put our lives back together.  Francie underwent more tests and it was determined that the initial diagnosis was incorrect—she did not have ARVD.  The boys did not have to undergo testing.  I felt an enormous burden lift from my shoulders.  We learned to cope with Mom’s illness; there were good days and bad.  She stayed at her house for a few more years, until we eventually had to place her in assisted living.    She is now in the final stages of Alzheimer’s, and even though she no longer recognizes us, we still tell her we love her, and occasionally talk about how the Horns are doing.  

I suppose a cynic would say “What if Vince Young had been tackled on that last play?  Would you still be writing about college football as hope?”  Probably not, but that is missing the point.  A football game did not give me hope.  Hope never left me.  Hope is always with us.  St. Paul told us that.  That game just reminded me.

In hindsight, I see it all clearly.  In my darkest moments, hope whispered: “Don’t worry about the future; just be present here and now.”  Hope kept Dad peaceful and calm, and gave us the chance to say what needed to be said, and learn from his example.  And only hope is bold enough to prune rose bushes knowing he would never see the blooms.

Hope does not promise that your team will win every game.  Hope does not promise that all illness will be cured.  Hope does not promise that your loved ones won’t die.  But hope does promise a future beyond imagination.  Because hope knows the One who holds the future in the palm of His hand. 

“But I will hope continually and will yet praise thee more and more.”

--Psalm 71:14