NASCAR's Closest Finish

Chicken Soup for the Soul: NASCAR

BY: Kurt Busch

It was on a hot Sunday afternoon at Darlington Raceway, where you get to go and dance with the old "Lady in Black."

Darlington is a place where you don't race the competition. You race the race track. Your ultimate job is to protect your race car and manage to not slide up into the wall, because you have to run inches from the wall for the fastest line around that particular track.

We blew two motors during practice, so I didn't have much practice time. My crew chief and I put a car together using the setups of my teammates at the time, Mark Martin and Jeff Burton. Both of those guys ran great at Darlington.

It turned out to be a great race for us, even without a lot of practice time. We raced hard all afternoon and worked our way toward the front. The car wasn't perfect, but I just told myself to drive it like Mark Martin would, or like Jeff Burton would. What did that mean? I really didn't know. But I told myself to drive the race track and not be aggressive with the car, to drive it conservatively and not wear out any of the tires. Darlington takes patience.

Near the end of the day, I was actually able to make a three-wide pass for the lead, which doesn't really happen at Darlington. You're always racing the race track and just trying to squeak by another competitor when you can. On one of the final restarts, Jeff Gordon and Elliott Sadler were battling side by side out of Turn 2, and I saw that the two of them broke their momentum. They didn't have the speed off the corner, and I was flying through there.

I thought, "Do I check up and pass them one at a time?" Of course, my right foot said, "No. We're going to pass them both at the same time." We went three-wide down the back straightaway, and I cleared them. I was in front of them by the time we got to Turn 3, and held the lead from that point.

Now it was going through my mind, "Do I need to conserve my tires? Or do I need to stretch out my lead and then try to preserve it once the tires wear off, to find out who's going to catch me?" I felt like I just needed to run a fairly steady pace, and run pretty quick, because I didn't think my car could hold off the competitors at the end.

With only 20 laps to go, I had a pretty good lead, and it wasn't Jeff Gordon or Elliott Sadler who was running second or third behind me.

It was Ricky Craven. He was clawing away at my lead. He was only gaining little bits at a time, but I knew in the back of my mind he was going to catch me by the end.

With about 15 laps to go, I felt my power steering give up in the car. I was really wrestling the wheel. I couldn't run the lap times I had been running earlier.

Still, I felt like with 15 laps to go, this was my race. This is what a driver lives for, to have the race on the line, a few laps to go, and you're leading. You've got to bring it home for the team.

It felt like the wind went out of my sails when the power steering went away, and then I was just wrestling the car as hard as I could, and lap after lap Craven was chewing away at the lead. I knew he was going to catch me before the end of it.

But with every lap that went by, I was more determined not to make it any easier for him to pass me.

There were two laps to go when he finally caught me. I was determined not to let him pass me. I was going to do all that I could to stay in front of him for two laps. Just two more laps.

We raced down the front straightaway side by side, because he got a good run coming off of Turn 4. At Darlington, you can't race into Turn 1 side by side. There's just not enough room. I felt like it was my job to hold the lead, and if he wanted it that bad he was going to have to come and get it.

He wanted it that bad. He came and got it.

We both went into Turn and I slid up into the fence. I pounded the fence pretty hard. I realized as I was going down the front straightaway that this wasn't such a great idea, but I couldn't give up the position, because if I did, he would just walk away and win this race uncontested.

We bumped and we banged. It was intense. He slipped ahead for an instant, but he couldn't quite get his car stable underneath him. My car bounced off the fence and was ready to go. I was ready to hammer the throttle because my car would do better in Turns 1 and 2, which are wider; the Darlington track is tighter in Turns 3 and 4 and you have to have the power steering to help you through there. But my power steering was gone, and we were running out of time.

I got back to him pretty quick and thought, "Well, if you were that mean to me going into Turn 1, I'm giving some of that back to you going into Turn 2." So I bumped him out of the way to get the lead. It was a perfect bump. I just moved him up to the high side and slid by him, so I had a pretty good run coming off Turn 2 to stay ahead of him.

We raced through Turns 3 and 4, and that big lead that I had was gone again. I saw how good he was in those two turns, and I knew it was going to come down to the final corner of the last lap to see who was going to get that checkered flag.

White flag; one lap to go.

He was right on my back bumper as we raced through 1 and 2, and I stretched him about three car lengths or so and came off Turn 2 with a good run. And then, he was on me. He was the closest he'd been, right on top of our rear bumper going into Turn 3.

I thought for an instant I would just put it on the outside wall and hold the throttle all the way to the pedal. But I knew that what I needed to do was hold the car low to take away some of his momentum in the low groove, where he had been running so well. I tried as hard as I could, but without the power steering I couldn't wrestle the wheel hard enough to hold it down in Turns 3 and 4.

And then, I had one little wiggle, and that allowed him to close up and get door-to-door with us. I kept my foot in it after that wiggle and came off Turn 4, but the car was so bound up with me holding the steering wheel as far left as I could at full throttle that it kind of shot off the wall and bumped into his right-side door.

Now my left side was locked with his right side, and we were both full throttle. He had to turn back to the right to hold his car stable on the straightaway because I was fully locked to the left. I was trying not to run into him but I couldn't get the steering back soon enough.

So there we were, door-to-door. This was it. I'm looking at him like he's looking at me, through the window, and I could just tell that his nose was an inch ahead of mine. I knew it all the way from Turn 4 to the start/finish line, but our cars were literally locked together. There was nothing I could do.

I was just hoping, praying, that maybe they would say we were ahead of him, but Ricky Craven beat me to the line by two one-thousandths of a second, after a full-fledged war we waged that day at Darlington.

The best part about the war was we didn't wreck each other. We completely exhausted every idea that we had -- for me to protect the lead, and for him to take it. To put that battle on created a lifelong friendship between two guys who thought the same way about how to win a race.

Still, every time I tell the story, I swear I'm going to win it one day.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/NASCARs-Closest-Finish.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Board Game Revival

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Tough Times, Tough People

BY: Christina Dymock

Games lubricate the body and the mind.
~Benjamin Franklin

I'm pretty sure I haven't played Clue since I was nine years old. I don't think I ever had as much fun playing it as I did last night. There's a group of us that used to go out to dinner on the weekends, but since most of us are out of work, we stay in and have game night on the weekends. When my neighbor showed up with Clue under her arm, I thought it was for the kids. She informed me that Clue was her game of choice for the night.

I was a little skeptical that it would keep us entertained, but I was so wrong. We had a great time as we all reverted to our nine-year-old selves. Adam was holding back information and Erica was throwing a fit about it. I was sneaking peeks at others' game cards and my husband was trash-talking all of us. I wasn't aware that you could trash-talk during a game of Clue, but he was a master!

We laughed our way through four games, a bag of chips and a bowl of dip before the kids got ornery. Then I remembered an old Clue movie we had in the basement and while I popped the popcorn, Erica got the kids settled in the living room, Craig searched for the movie, and Adam hooked up a VCR. We laughed right out loud through the movie. It was funny without being over the top like so many movies are today.

After we'd said good night to everyone, Craig commented on how much fun we had just doing "dumb stuff." I thought about the times we were so grown up and went out to dinner at nice restaurants. Who wants to be a grown up? I want to be a kid again, where my biggest worry is what game to play when my friends come over.

Next week it's our turn to bring the game. I'm sure we have a Sorry game somewhere in the house, and they'd all better watch out because I was Sorry champion in the fourth grade!

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/Board-Game-Revival.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Mistaken Identity

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Twins & More

BY: Elaine A. Lederman

She glances at the photo, and the pilot light of memory flickers in her eyes.
~Frank Deford

As a mom of identical twin girls, I am always on the lookout for those amazing twin moments -- times when the special connection between the girls becomes apparent to the outside world.

I was sorting through a box of photos recently when four-year-old Naomi joined me. We enjoyed looking at the numerous baby photos of my oldest daughter, Sophia, and the twins. However, in many of the photos of the twins, I was unable to tell who was who, as I had not labeled them. But, much to my surprise, Naomi was able to point things out to me.

"That's Naomi, and that's Jillian," she said confidently as we looked at one that had me stumped. So I picked out another one in which the girls looked (to me) exactly the same. Again, Naomi pointed out herself and her sister without any hesitation.

We then sorted through the whole box this way, as I quickly scribbled an "N" or a "J" on each photo. "Wow!" I thought to myself. "She really knows the difference between herself and her sister. That must be part of the twin connection." Not only was I thrilled to witness this display of "twinness," but I was excited that I was able to finally label the photos. (Clearly, I was delirious in thinking I would ever get around to putting them into albums.) And Naomi seemed very proud of herself for being such a smart girl and helping Mommy.

As we continued to dig through the pile, we came upon a photo of a friend with her two dogs. Without missing a beat, Naomi pointed at the dogs and announced with great authority, "That's Naomi, and that's Jillian." She then methodically went through every other photo in the box, naming anyone and everyone Naomi and Jillian. Oh, well....

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/Mistaken-Identity.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Lilacs and the Waiting List

Keep on asking, and you will be given what you ask for. Keep on looking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened.
~Matthew 7:7-8


I could feel my face wilt into a disappointed grimace. The letter from Holy Cross, the one school I really wanted to attend, had come in a dreaded small envelope. By April of my senior year, I could clearly recognized what the envelope size conveyed about its contents -- large manila envelopes, full and ripe with promise, were the heralds of glorious acceptances, while the thin, white business envelopes were forerunners to the dismissing lines, "We regret to inform you..."


I sighed as I began to slowly ease open the flap, trying to delay the inevitable as long as possible. True, my college counselor had told me that Holy Cross was a "reach" school, and based on my high school grades I would sit in the bottom 25% of my class all four years if I managed to get in. "But Holy Cross is my school," I had argued. "That is where I want to be." He had smiled skeptically and turned to schools that were more in my "range."


Holy Cross had been the only school I really wanted to attend since the moment I set foot onto the tree-lined main drive for the first time. I can't explain the sense of belonging and rightness I felt as I wandered the old corridors and manicured grounds on my tour. I had visited lots of schools, been wowed by meal plans, dorm set ups, curriculum options, and diverse extra-curricular activities. But any interest I had in them disappeared as I toured Kimball, the main dining hall, and Dinand, the grand library. This was where I was meant to go to school -- I could feel it, and I eagerly mailed my application with butterflies in my stomach and a quick kiss on the envelope.


Yet the months of waiting, checking the mail everyday, had lead to this disheartening moment, standing in my kitchen with my coat still on, slipping the thin, uncaring paper out of the cold white envelope. I scanned the page, looking for some sign of either acceptance or rejection. Blah, blah, blah, "we had a great applicant pool this year," yada yada yada, "we can't offer spaces to everyone," something-something-something, "placing you on our waitlist," -- huh?


"What does it say, honey?" my dad askd, his voice full of anxiety for me.


"I didn't get in, but I'm on the waitlist." I said, rereading the letter. Being relegated to the waiting list seemed a strangely anticlimactic end to my passionate desire to be accepted.


"Well, at least it isn't rejection," he said brightly.
"Yea, but still," I said, a small tear sneaking out of the corner of my eye. "I don't want to be on the waiting list; I want to be accepted. Holy Cross was the one school I cared about. It doesn't matter where I go now, because it is all ruined. No one gets in off the waiting list, it is a consolation prize. It's a way of saying ‘thanks for trying; we liked you enough not to flat out reject you,' but everyone knows it's the same thing." My lip quivered; I was on the edge of dissolving into childish crying.


"So then let's go out there and tell them so."


"What?"


"I'm serious. Let's drive out there so you can tell them how you feel. What have you got to lose?"


"That sounds lame, dad," I pouted. "Stuff like that doesn't work."


"OK, do what you want. But, if I were you, I would make the effort to show them how much I want it."


Frustrated and annoyed, I went upstairs and busied myself in my room, my father's advice swirling around in my head. It was a silly idea. They wouldn't care if I showed up, begging to be let in. It would be a waste of everyone's time, not to mention very embarrassing for me.


However, I mulled the situation over for a few days, finally coming to the conclusion he was right. I had nothing to lose. I might as well try, or else I would never know. On Wednesday morning I asked him if he would drive me out there Friday. He smiled and said, "Of course."


The butterflies in my stomach felt as if they were threatening to leap out of my mouth as we pulled up in front of the vast and daunting admissions building. We walked in and took a left down an echoing and empty hallway. My dad stopped part way down the hall and said with a smile, "Good luck, sweetheart."


At the end of the hallway, I turned right and presented myself to the admissions secretary. I asked if the officer who conducted my interview would have a minute or two to chat. Fifteen minutes later, I was ushered into the same bright meeting room where I had my first interview and found myself seated across from Mr. Luis Soto, my admissions officer. He smiled as he held my fate in his hands.


"What can I do for you, Nacie?" he asked pleasantly.


"Well, sir, I am here to tell you that I love this school and would love an opportunity to be here. I was put on the waiting list, and just wanted to come out here to tell you how much going here would mean to me -- it is my only dream for college, sir -- and that I would use my time here to the best advantage. I am seriously dedicated to doing my best here, and wanted to let you know that if you gave me a chance and reconsidered my application that you wouldn't regret it." I took a deep breath; the words had tumbled imploringly from my mouth before I could stop them or check their desperate tone.


Mr. Soto was a young man with a calming presence and a sweet manner. He looked me over for a minute before he smiled broadly.


"OK, well that is the kind of thing we love to hear. Congratulations, you're in."


My voice caught in my throat and I choked, "I'm sorry?"


"We want people in the class who want to be here, who will make the best of this education. I'm glad you came to talk to me. I'm happy to offer you a position in the Class of 2007."


"Thank you," I said, my voice small with disbelief. "Thank you. Thank you!"


I was still saying thank you as I shook his hand and walked, dazed and elated, out of his office and back down the hall. I couldn't believe it. I started to cry from happiness and sheer mental overload. My father was sitting on a bench, his hands clasp anxiously on his knees. When he saw my tears he assumed the worst, and began to console me with an "Oh, honey..." before I was able to tell him the good news. Then his face lit up and he wrapped on arm around me as we walked out of the building.


As we left the campus that day, new Holy Cross T-shirt and hat in hand, we walked down a set of stairs that had lilacs growing on either side. My dad stopped, took a deep breath, and said, "I hope you will always remember the day you got into Holy Cross you were here with your father and everything smelled like lilacs." I smiled at him as we pulled out the phone to call my mom.


The four years at Holy Cross were even more wonderful than I thought they could be, and I never lost that feeling of belonging. I had an opportunity to learn about everything from archaeology to organic chemistry to Freudian psychology to English poetry and graduated magna cum laude with an honors degree in history. So much for the prediction I would be in the bottom 25% of my class. It's true that I haven't - and will never - forget the day I got into Holy Cross. The whole experience taught me two of the best lessons I learned during my college years: don't listen to other's predictions for you, and if you truly want something, never, ever give up.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/Lilacs-and-the-Waiting-List.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Euro-Trip

You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them.
~Desmond Tutu


I had just finished college and, like the multitudes of new grads out there, I was going on a two-month backpacking trip to Europe. The itinerary included England, France, Italy, Greece, Austria, and Germany. I spent the first three weeks with a friend and the rest of the time I was on my own. I swam in the Mediterranean Sea off the beaches of Nice and Positano. I explored the Roman Coliseum and the Vatican with friends I made at the hostel. Then it happened. After gazing at an awe-inspiring sunset in Santorini, I went to an Internet café and opened an e-mail from my mom.


The e-mail read, "Your dad and I haven't been on a holiday in a while and we want to come meet you in Europe."


"Oh no!" -- that was my first thought. This was my trip, my independent adventure, my solo dance.


But there was no stopping my parents. My self-discovery trip of eating bread with peanut butter and meeting random strangers at the hostel was over. The one saving grace was that traveling with my parents meant I was no longer on a measly budget.


We decided to meet in Venice. I found my dad waiting for me by a flower stand in the small square near their hotel. I gave him a hug, and he pointed to the window where my mom was watching and waving anxiously. This was going to be interesting, to say the least. I couldn't remember the last time I traveled with both my parents. I spent the last four years at school more than 5,000 miles from home.


My original plan was to head to the hills from The Sound of Music, better known as Salzburg, after being in Venice. However, Mom and Dad wanted to visit Italy and France. I would have to backtrack. Places that I thought I wouldn't revisit for at least five years, I was going back to only three weeks after I had left. My parents' idea of planning included printing off itineraries from guidebooks and following them. I had thrown out my guidebooks after visiting France and Italy to lighten my backpack. I was traveling without any plans or real guides. Adventure was my tour guide. But now that I was traveling with Mom and Dad, adventure had moved on.


One of my favorite places in Italy is Cinque Terre (the English translation is Five Lands, or Five Fishing Villages.) So just ten days after my first visit to Cinque Terre, I returned to the five coastal towns with my parents. We rented a villa with a kitchen where my dad could cook. On our first day, we spent two hours looking for the fish market. No fish was found, and at 3 P.M., the gelateria owner told us the fish market was already closed. We were too late. "Fish market abierto in the morning." he said. The next day, my dad went to buy fish at dawn -- I've never seen him so excited. We ate fish for brunch at 11 A.M.


On the beaches of Monteresso, I watched my father walk barefoot in the sand, the waves brushing over his feet. At that moment, he was more than just the guy who chauffeured me around, the guy who taught me to ride a bike, and the guy who told me to do my homework; he was a real person. I lay on the beach and talked "life" with my father. He told me not to be too cheap with my money. "Sometimes in an effort to be frugal, you may cost yourself more money in the end," he said. My previous economical traveling diet of bread and cheese had left me with sunken cheeks. After a week with my dad eating gelato and pizza in Italy, any weight I had lost was easily (and deliciously) regained.


When I was young, my dad told me an old folktale about a man who lost his horse. The moral of the story is that what you perceive to be something bad may turn out be a blessing in disguise.


Initially, I thought my parents intruding on my Euro-trip would be a disaster. I was wrong, and my parents coming to join me was actually a precious gift. Three weeks after we returned from Europe, my dad passed away suddenly due to a heart attack. I cherish that time we had on the beach together, and the image of him walking along the waves in sheer delight will forever live in my memories.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/EuroTrip.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

The Kindness of Runners

Winning has always meant much to me, but winning friends has meant the most.
~Babe Zaharias

Every so often, something happens that reminds you just how great our sport is. One of those somethings happened for me on a quiet summer morning in upstate New York.

My wife and I were away for a long weekend, celebrating our first wedding anniversary at an old, sprawling Shawangunk Mountain resort. It was a beautiful place -- a very oak-paneled-lobby, open-lake-swim, Sunday-lobster-bake, porches-and-rocking-chairs sort of hideaway.

Think The Shining, but with less blood in the halls and more croquet.

Thing was, I was training for a fall marathon at the time. So, beauty aside, I was a little anxious about the 14-miler I had planned for Sunday. Not about being able to run 14 miles, but about being able to do so on such unfamiliar turf. We were surrounded by "2,200 acres of scenic wilderness," according to the booklet in our room, including 85 miles of trails. But I'd been having trouble keeping my bearings on them. (Hey, 85 miles of trails was about 71 miles more than I needed.) Doing an easy 4-mile loop was no problem, even for someone as navigationally challenged as me. Four miles, I could handle. But I was fairly certain I'd get lost and die trying to navigate a 14-mile run out there. The phrase "skeletal remains" leapt to mind.

But you've gotta do what you've gotta do, so I set out early Sunday morning with my wristband I.D. and a bottle of orange Gatorade from the gift shop. The sun was shining, which was nice. If I was going to get lost and die, at least it would happen in agreeable weather.

The first few miles rolled by reasonably well, despite a dead end and some backtracking. 
Then I saw them: A group of six or eight fellow runners, on the same trail, headed right for me.

As we neared each other, we exchanged the usual nods and greetings. Then I stopped. 
Feeling a little sheepish, I asked, "Umm... How far are you guys going?"

"20," one of them said. "We just started."

Even more sheepish: "You mind if I... uh... join you for part of it?"

"Sure."

So I did. Off we went. And what followed were 10 of the nicest miles I think I've ever run.

Time flew by, and my newfound friends -- all locals -- knew the trails backward and front. The scenery, all ponds and pine and postcard vistas, was breathtaking. Even the pace was just right. We chatted here and there, as they told me a bit about the trails and the local running scene and themselves. They asked about me and my wife, my work and my running, so we talked about those things too.

Four of them were training for that fall's New York City Marathon. A couple had run the Richmond Marathon, the race I was training for. (They gave me some pointers about the course.) One guy had run sub-3 hours at Boston a few months prior. A woman had started with the elites another year, also at Boston, which is pretty hard-core. They were active members of a local running club. Several of them were teachers. All of them were funny and thoughtful.

Just like that, my morning run had gone from "solo wander" to "group run." And it was so seamless, happening so quickly, without question or fanfare. It all unfolded so... naturally. It almost didn't occur to me to stop and appreciate how very cool it was.

But I did appreciate it, both during the run and afterward. That's the thought that's really stuck with me, to this very day: How great is our sport, where you can stumble across a group of strangers running in the middle of nowhere, and join them as if it's the most natural thing in the world?

In a society more and more splintered, and drawn more and more to virtual, online "community," it's such a privilege to be part of a warm, far-reaching, real-life community. It's just one of many, many things to love about running. But it's one of the most satisfying things.

I know from talking with other runners that mine isn't an isolated story. When you're a runner in an unfamiliar place, very rarely are you ever truly alone, unless you want to be. Head out the door of your hotel in just about any city or town, and it's fairly likely you'll encounter a fellow runner or three at some point. (To paraphrase Yogi Berra: Wherever runners go, there you are.) And they'll probably welcome a bit of company, if you ask. You're a runner, after all. You must be a decent person. C'mon. Let's run.

It's a phenomenon I call "The Kindness of Runners," and it cuts across social, racial, economic, and geographic lines. It's a pretty marvelous thing.

* * *

Just shy of 2 hours into my own run, our group came to a fork in the trail. The locals told me they were going left, to finish their 20-miler; I should turn right, which would get me back to the resort at just around 14 miles.

I thanked them. They replied, "you bet" and "no problem" and "have a good one." As I ran off, one of them turned to call out, "Happy anniversary!"

Then they rounded a bend, and vanished from sight.

* * *

Later that same year, I would bump into two of my Shawangunk trail buddies at the New York City Marathon expo. I was there selling and signing copies of my new book. They were there because they were running the race. I'll admit, when they first approached me in my booth, I didn't recognize them -- they were wearing jeans and jackets, after all, not shorts and technical tees. And it had been months since our run together in the mountains. Besides which, the New York City Marathon expo is a dizzying place, teeming with foot traffic; you're lucky to recognize your own mother in a crowd like that.

Still, as they shook my hand and reintroduced themselves, it all came back in a flash. Shawangunk! My best 14-miler ever! Yes! Hey, how are you?

We chatted for a minute or so, then more hand-shaking and well-wishing. Then they rejoined the swarm and I got back to hawking books.

The memories lingered, though. I couldn't stop thinking back to that trail run in August, to the brilliant sunshine and the stunning views. More than anything, I recalled the companionship and camaraderie, and the warmth I felt -- not from the sun, but simply from being out there, running. With some new friends.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/The-Kindness-of-Runners.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Silence Is Golden

The older I grow the more I listen to people who don't talk much.
~Germain G. Glien


My dad sat in his rocking chair. The chair bucked, agitated just like he was as he plucked peanuts from their shells and popped them into his mouth. He glanced at me every so often, grimacing. It seemed from his furrowed brow that he was the one who was slogging hour upon hour in a swimming pool, counting tiles and laps, with arms like lead, heaving for breath and somehow, getting slower!


"Just a plateau, Kath," my dad said. Plateau my you-know-what. I was actually getting worse.


"How am I supposed to keep this up?" I sat on the couch across from my father, my arms hugging my legs to my chest. Each breath tripped over the sob before it. "I'm not getting any faster!"


My dad rose from his chair. My heart seized a little bit. He'd had enough of my weeping and was making an exit. But then I felt his strong hand grab the back of my neck and squeeze, giving me a little shake on the scruff. He'd done this a million times throughout my life. It was his answer to other dads' bear hugs.


"Are you working as hard as you can?" he said.


"Yes!"


He stopped squeezing. No more words. That couldn't be it. I looked up at him from my curled position on the couch, waiting for magic words, the sentiments or advice that would immediately reveal my next steps toward becoming a faster swimmer. He was my father after all, and pep talks were his specialty. It had always seemed as though he'd had a crystal ball that doled out advice that actually worked. But this time, silence.


"Well," he started squeezing again. "You wake up tomorrow and you go back and work even harder. Oh, and trust God. A little faith helps."


I shrugged out of his grip and gaped at him. "That's it? I'm working as hard as I can. So that's it? This is the best I'll ever be?"


A tiny hint of a smile did not cancel out the warmth in his eyes. He had told me my entire life I could be anything I wanted if I set my mind to it and there I was doing just that and still somehow drowning in my own mediocrity. Could he have been completely wrong?
"Dad, I mean it. Is this the best I'll ever be?"


"I don't know," he said. "Is this as good as you can be?" And then he was gone, to help my mother with a clogged toilet.


I woke up the next morning and was back in the pool working as though I had a spot on the U.S. Olympic team. Working hard had already been forged into the creases of my brain. Even if I wanted to quit, I couldn't. And there in the pool surrendering to the very thing that frustrated me so much, I found my answer.


* * *


Seventeen years, a Ph.D., husband, two children, and a multiple sclerosis diagnosis later...


I was back on my parent's couch for a visit. This time my two toddlers crawled over me, around me, on me, squalling for attention. I wrapped them in my numb arms and felt grateful they were too young to notice my silent tears or realize that I couldn't feel their soft skin with my prickly fingertips. As long as my warm body was near, all was right for them. They had no idea what multiple sclerosis was or what it meant to me.


My dad sat across the room in his rocking chair, narrating the TV news as though I couldn't hear it myself. "Damn politicians!" the rocking chair moved with his mood.


My dad glimpsed me every so often and caught my gaze with a forced smile. I waited for his encouraging words, his worldview that's tethered to his heart by the belief that anything is possible with a little faith and hard work.


Sitting there, I floundered in my self-pity, wondering where those sentiments were. He'd offered them through my swimming life, as I scratched through full-time work and Ph.D. studies, premature births of two children, and while I waited to see my writing published. But this time, with my immune system attacking the coating on the nerves of my brain, he had nothing to offer?


I closed my eyes and laid my cheek on the top of my daughter's head, sniffed the baby shampoo and listened to her coo and sigh at the pleasure of merely being alive.


Then I felt it. My dad's hand on the back of my neck, squeezing. And I waited for the words. But none came. A few more squeezes and he was gone to the kitchen, foraging for his favorite shelled nuts. I remembered all the times he'd offered his advice.


And I realized that as I got older he said less and less about how to handle things. He passed me on the way back to his chair, and there it was, the squeeze on the back of the neck. The one that said everything he couldn't.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/Silence-Is-Golden.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter