Solace in the Spring

[This post is temporarily posted here from a private blog that is a journal I began keeping since Enoch came to live with us. He came from China as a junior to our school. His father is the pastor of a house church in China. The circumstances of his life require that I say little more about it in this public blog.]

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I am not a golfer.

Over the course of fifty years, I've played golf seldom enough to keep my beginner’s luck in tact. It’s been years since I’ve swung a club, so even that statement may no longer be true, but I used to be able make par on a handful of holes with years between games. This was very frustrating to my friends who golfed regularly, but the truth is:

I’m not a golfer. Neither is Enoch, but I do want to tell you about last spring when some of his classmates coaxed him to "try out" for our Calvary golf team.

The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) banned golf several decades ago. Then in 1984, they caved to a growing class of foreign businessmen and built the first golf course in China. Two decades later the CCP banned the word "luxury" to deflect charges of elitism. Shortly thereafter, the Party banned all members from joining golf clubs for the same reason. None of these policies affected Enoch or his family, of course, but evenso Enoch had never seen a golf course in his life—never held a club—never touched a dimpled ball—never even played putt-putt. Zip. Zero. Nada. BUT… two of his classmates are golfers, and when they asked him to come “be on the golf team” at school it was a social opportunity he could not refuse.

Enoch borrowed some clubs from his “brother in law” (or as he puts it:  “the husband of my American sister, Natalie") and began going to golf practice in late March.

I was not very involved in the process. His being at golf simply meant that I went home after school and had to go pick him up two or three hours later.

“How was golf?” I would ask.

“Cold. Very cold,” he would shiver. “The wind hurts my face. But today was a good day. I found four balls in the woods.”

“What were you doing in the woods?”

“I lost my ball. Twice. But I found four balls.”

“Were two of them the ones you lost?”

“No. Someone else will find those, but I am ahead two balls.”

“Well, that’s one way to keep score.” I smiled.

This went on for a few weeks until one April day over Spring Break.

Michigan never quite knows when to turn the page on winter. It can still be freezing cold in April, and this was a particularly blustery day. Enoch had no gloves. I offered him some that were in the car but he declined. “I will borrow golf gloves from a friend,” he said. I winced because golf gloves are very thin. "Use your pockets if your hands get cold," I said to a closing door.

About an hour and a half later, my phone rang unexpectedly.

“Dad,…”  [I should explain that some time between January and April, Enoch began calling Julie and I "Mom and Dad." This was not an easy decision for him. At school, students often call us "Mr. K" and "Mrs. K," but this did not feel right for Enoch, and one day at breakfast, he explained that even though his real mom and dad are in China, it would be much easier to say "Mom and Dad" if that would be okay. This made sense. But quite often when Enoch says the word “dad," he elongates it into a two syllable word  that drops a note mid-way through like a door chime.]

 “Da-ad, can you come get me?”

“Is golf practice over?”

“No just first nine-holes, but I cannot go on.”

I could tell that he was very sad, and it was not just because of the cold. Ten minutes later he plopped down in the passenger seat of our car. His bare hands were red, but his eyes were, too.

“Here. Put these gloves on. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. There is nothing to talk about. I am no good at golf. The coach is nice to me, but I know I am just no good. I am holding up the whole team. Even when they separate the players by how good they are, I hold up the other bad players.”

“Well…" I searched for something to say. "You gave it try. I thought maybe you’d find a hidden talent or have some beginners luck.”

“No talent and no luck. Just swing and miss or ball goes wrong way. I hate golf.”

“Well… don’t be too hard on yourself. You mostly just wanted to be with friends, right?”

“Golf course is very big. Today we were separate. I didn’t even see my friends except when I told them I was going home. They said they understand.”

“Well… [It was my third reply in a row that begin with “well…” but I’m not sure he knew this pattern was a signal of deep consolation.]  I’m proud of you for trying. You’ll feel better when you warm up. We’re almost home. You don’t have to go to practice anymore.”

There is a non-profit called "passiton.com" that puts inspirational billboards up all across the country. You've probably seen them. This one of John Wayne is near our home. It's a quote from the movie True Grit. I've passed this sign with Enoch many times. We did not pass it on the way back from the golf course, but it did come to mind when we pulled in the driveway and Enoch broke his silence..

“Are you mad at me for quitting?”

“No." I wondered out loud. "Do I look mad? Have I said anything that makes you think I am mad?"

[Time for a confession: Have my own children ever seen me mad? You bet. Has my wife ever seen me mad? Of course? Bless her ever-loving heart.... But you all know how it is. Getting mad with loved ones requires testing an incredibly strong "tie that binds." Sad but true is the old song "You Always Hurt the One[s] You Love," and though I do love Enoch, that bond has not yet tested the rope, and to be honest, Enoch is a thoughtful young man who is somewhere in this same cautious spectrum with us. I share this merely to say .... Enoch has never seen me upset, and if he ever does, I hope he will smile and says, "Does this mean I'm family?"] 

I was not even disappointed about him quitting golf. I felt bad that he kept going for so long. These thoughts were running through my head as he asked again:

"So you are not mad that I failed?"

"Not at all. Enoch. You didn't fail. Until a few weeks ago, you'd never swung a club. I just thought it might be worth a try to see if you like it. In this case, giving something a try gives you the right not to continue, but that is not failing. You succeeded at trying. That’s all anyone can ask of you. There are sometimes in life when you cannot quit trying because... well... it's important to keep going, but... I would never make you keep chasing golf balls in the cold if it's not something you enjoy."

"So why do I feel bad?"

"Well... I suppose you're disappointed, but that only means you really tried, right? There are lots of things I have tried and failed at, but do you know what is really sad? There are some things I  think I might be good at, but I have not tried them."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I'm afraid of the difference between what I think I'm good at and what others think is good. Does that make sense?"

He nodded. I realized that I was talking to myself out loud as much as I was talking to Enoch. I suppose that is the nature of advice whenever age talks to youth.

We stepped into the warm house. The rest of the day and evening was quiet. I was in a recliner watching the news and Julie was upstairs reading. I assumed Enoch was in his room, but he was not.

Our house is a tri-level. It has a lower-lever family room where we spend most of our evenings and a living room on the main floor which is more formal. In in is our family piano; a very old family pump organ; and harmonicas and stringed-instruments of various sizes. Despite these many instruments, it is a room that has been largely silent since our last daughter was married (and now has a house and  piano of her own) It is a great room to read in or to take a nap (on the seldom-used couch), but in the four months that led up to that quiet April night, Enoch had never sat at our piano, and I had no reason to think he ever would.

Then in the distance I heard Beethoven and wondered who was in the house.

Enoch noticed me recording him with my phone, but it did not seem to bother him at all.

I recalled a previous conversation many weeks before when Enoch told me that his mother made him take piano lessons as a child, but he did not like and quit. The level of playing I was watching reflected a much longer story.

When he was done, I put down my phone and said, "Okay, Enoch. Tell me more about those lessons you took as a child. You are very good."

"No. I am only so-so. I have not played a piano in many years."

"You've walked past this piano for four months and never been tempted to play?"

"No. I did not want to. It is bad memories for me."

"How so?"

"My mother knew a very famous concert pianist in our city. This friend knew we were poor and told her that she would teach me lessons but not charge. She did this for free. And so every week for seven years, I had to go to that lady's house [apartment] for piano, but I did not like it at all."

"So you were seven when you started?"

"Yes. Elementary school at first, but as I got older, I had long days at school...homework... church...and then piano. My mother made me practice many hours each week--not on a piano because we do not have a piano... on one of those keyboard things. It plugged in.”

"Most kids do not like it until they get past the notes on the page and the song is inside them. Our first two daughters took piano, but it never really took them. Natalie [our youngest] learned to love it." 

"I never felt good enough. I make mistakes, and I knew I would never be a concert pianist."

"Very few people ever get that good, but they still play piano. You are good. Why did you quit?

"My mother made me play until the Government put my father prison. Things got hard then. It just happened. She let me quit piano."

"Has it been that long since you played?" He nodded yes. "I think it would make your parents very happy to know that you have not forgotten how."

"I made many mistakes, but it did feel good to know I could still read the music."

"Our daughter Natalie used to spend many evenings here. We did not make her do it. She enjoyed it. I would lie on the couch and listen to her. I miss that. It is very good to hear it again, so please make yourself at home and play whenever you want for as long as you want."

He smiled, and began playing again.

To this day, neither of us has talked about why it was on that particular day after feeling like he had failed at golf that he suddenly went down to the "parlor," turned on the piano light, adjusted the bench, slid back the wooden lid, thumbed through the Schirmer's collection, and began playing notes that had not coursed through his fingers for over three years.

On that night, mistakes did not matter to him. The notes on the page went from eyes to brain to memory and to a song that brought him solace in the spring. It does not happen every evening or even every week. Playing piano is not something he HAS TO DO, but like the shepherd David at his lyre, it is something that soothes his restless mind when his thoughts are far away.