Everything used to fit neatly in the back of the car. Now Mason’s big red goalie pads block half the rearview mirror, the sticks nearly reach into the front seat, and my own jacket has to be balled up and stuffed in a corner. Everything but our car is getting bigger.

Last night we packed the car to drive off to a hockey tryout my boys had been anticipating for months. A summer of going to camp with on and off ice training, shooting sessions in our driveway, and distance runs in the humidity had all been directed at “making the team.”

At least that is the story we typically tell. You know, the story about setting clear goals, working hard, making sacrifices, and finding success. That story is true. They did set a goal, work hard, make sacrifices, and make the team. 

But the memorable moment – the one freeze framed in my mind is not any of that. Instead, it is my son Patrick’s voice as we pulled out of the driveway: 

“Look at Stella.” 

Stella is our chocolate lab and Patrick was directing us to see her standing in the frame of our open front door, her nose pressed up against the screen, her big cow eyes watching as we pulled away, and her looking like she was worried we might never return home.

Stella’s life seems so immediate – so extreme. Her simple presence – her way of connecting with each of us draws us together around her. She is the baby. Her nose pressing against the screen door seems like an odd thing to remember when so much was at stake last night.

But I think what I am really remembering is Patrick’s voice, his looking out of the car window, and his noticing Stella at a time when he could have been too busy thinking about himself to notice her. Somehow that was my proudest moment of the night.

Peace,

Chris