The Running of the Moms

I have a notebook that I use to keep copies of articles that I want to save for one reason or another. I've discovered that this seems to be the best way for me to maintain some semblance of order with these assorted papers!

Recently as I was looking through this notebook, I "rediscovered" one of the articles that I found a while back. It struck me then, and it impacted me again when I read it a few days ago, so I thought I'd share it here--for a laugh, but also for a serious point, too.

It's from Focus on the Family magazine, and I don't know which month it appeared...but I do know that it's by Don Bosley.

Where I come from, the bloodthirsty village folk always look forward to a rite of parenting known as "The Running of the Moms," similar to the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona - though bulls aren't nearly as dangerous.

That's because no bulls have ever been asked to sit by idly in the football bleachers watching their precious sons below be absolutely and repeatedly pummeled in the name of sport.

Moms, as a group, don't understand pummeling. The theory, advanced by behavioral sociologists who wanted to play football as youngsters but were made to learn the French horn by their mothers instead, say that moms don't appreciate the aggressive nature of sports.

It's not that moms aren't tough. Five minutes in the labor room with your wife will put a cork in that nonsense. A lot of moms are former athletes or scrappy tomboys at heart. Some moms are hearty football fans and even cheer a good pummeling of poor saps now and again.

But they're moms, and when their sons are in the game, moms can transform into a wild-eyed sisterhood. Their maternal emotions are ready to explode and stampede the place, and when they do - well, let's just say the The Running of the Moms has flattened many a flippant father and scores of enthusiastic teens.

"Don't throw it to him. Don't throw it to him," Melody kept chanting, while simultaneously chewing on all 10 fingernails.

I was young and foolish; I decided to correct her.

"Don't throw it to him?!" I scoffed. "Honey, he's wide open!"

"No, he's not!"

I didn't know how much danger I was in. Dads understand pummeling. They can watch their sons be clobbered by a mastodon-sized linebacker and be philosophical about it.

But football moms are absolutely not philosophical. They are tormented. Jittery. Women on the edge.

Do not mess with them.

"GO, BRETT!" I hollered. It looked like he might go the distance.

I couldn't see whether he made it or not. A blanket hit me with the force of a stampeding Spanish bull.

"Run, Brett! RUN!" screamed Melody, in a maternal seizure.

She didn't care about the end zone. She wanted Brett to run anywhere he could to avoid the extreme pounding to his skinny little self.

But the kid hadn't eaten enough broccoli. One defender slowed him down and another plowed him into the ground after a 20-yard gain.

The joyous fans went nuts. I went nuts. The other moms went nuts, thrilled that it wasn't their kids who'd gotten planted like a pathetic petunia at midfield.

Melody, on the other hand, was way beyond nuts. She was covering her eyes, cringing and trying to make herself do deep-breathing exercises.

"Let him get up. Please let him get up," she kept praying. "Somebody tell me when he gets up."

"Honey, they're already run three more plays."

The truth was, Brett was wearing so much protective equipment that you could have swung a wrecking ball at the kid, and he still would've bounced up unscathed.

He was supposed to get hit. He was dressed for it. I'm a dad. I totally get this.

But here's the problem: I get it when it comes to the football field, but I don't always grasp the concept elsewhere - which can be problematic when you're talking about your walk with Jesus.

I am stunned when some lousy circumstance or petty injustice touches my life. I can get snorty and wild-eyed.

Strife comes to one of my relationships, and I start retreating desperately or raving unintelligibly. A financial burden blindsides me, and I go into spiritual convulsions.

What did I expect? A game of pinochle played on a tablecloth?

It's a battle. We're supposed to get pummeled a little. The Enemy has flaming arrows, and they are coming our way.

But there's no reason to go fetal. No reason to stampede hysterically. It's not like God has thrown us out here without any protection.

He gave us His words of wisdom in Ephesians 6:11: "Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes."

So all I can shout is: "Go, Christian, go!"

And to that, I say, "Amen!"