The
best night of the year is uniquely interpreted based on a person's
priorities and passions. For football fanatics the Super Bowl, for
elk hunters opening morning of the season, for Hollywood swooners
the Oscars, and for Cub Scouts it's Pinewood Derby.
In
all cases, it can often be a day of prayer as well. On the field, on
the mountain top, on the stage, in the locker room, supplications and
public tokens of gratitude are common when one has worked hard to
develop skills required for success.
But
all the sweat, all the tears, all the long hours are sometimes not
enough. We wish for a nudge from heaven to help us achieve our goals.
Such was the case last Friday night for at least one pure-hearted Cub
Scout.
The
scene was busy as a beehive as Scouting families arrived for the race.
Primary presidency sisters cooked Sloppy Joe dinners in the kitchen,
Cubmasters were stationed at the scales for precise weigh-in
procedures, small kids ran laps around banquet tables and dads grouped
in corners swapping shop stories of their (I mean, their son's) car
construction.
The
boys were literally beaming. They delivered prized possessions to the
staging area and happily obliged when I asked them to pose for
pictures. We made certificates and small trophies for each participant,
but it was the outcome of the race that truly mattered most to the
boys.
My
8-year-old son had dreamed his car into reality. It was shocking to see
how the car resembled his crayon-drawn drafts. With a sleek front and a
raised tail, he painted the car bright green and then added layers of
red, orange and yellow translucent paint to create blazing flames down
the sides and across the hood. He chose red numerical stickers for the
lucky "45" on his hood.
Last-minute stress due to a lost axel resulted in a risky new set of wheels and wonder over the car's ultimate racing prowess.
My
husband tried to prepare our son with realistic expectations by saying,
"Now you know, this is my first Pinewood Derby car, so I'm not sure how
we're going to do."
I was puzzled and had to ask, "What do you mean, you were a Cub Scout. Didn't you have Pinewood Derbies?"
"Of course," he said, "but this is
my first car. You never really get to make a car until you're the dad of the Cub Scout. That's just the way it works."
Despite
lore of over-the-top competitive, dad-dominated derbies of the past, I
was proud of the number of hours my son logged on his own car. It was
obviously the same for most derby cars at our event. Paint jobs were
not professional. Sticker accents were somewhat askew. Youthful themes
of Legos, dinosaurs and alligators were rampant.
The
computer-programmed track and adjoining big screen with all the race
results instantly projected from a laptop added a huge measure of
excitement to the race. We placed four seats at the end of the track
where the four competitors perched during each heat. As the cars
crossed the finish line, the boys with faces smudged with graphite ran
back to the beginning for another chance to race in another lane and
against other boys.
The
cumulative times determined final winners, but for some, there was no
math needed to calculate their placement in the standings.
My
boy's car came dead last every time it plowed down the track. Wobbly
wheels seemed to fizzle those flames before reaching the end. While
everyone displayed sportsmanship, after a few heats, I heard one boy
ask my son, "What is the matter with your car?"
He shrugged his shoulders and bowed his red face when reluctantly retrieving his car off the track.
Recognition
for the "most colorful derby car" seemed to lift my boy's spirits, as
did the cupcakes and root beer floats. Before the night ended, track
officials allowed 15 minutes of open races for the boys more interested
in racing than dessert.
I
stood near the end to protect the track as sprinting boys tried to
cross the finish line before their cars. I watched my boy walk instead
of run after leaving his car at the top. Then I saw his arms fold, his
eyes close and his lips say words only his Father in heaven could hear.
The scene made my heart leap, my eyes well with tears and it really became hard to swallow.
Of
all the prayers proclaimed that night across the world, couldn't this
small request be answered? A Scout in uniform who only wanted a little
miracle — just one chance to cross the finish line before someone,
anyone.
But alas, another unanswered prayer meant a deeper life's lesson was to be learned.
My
boy (and husband) remarkably came home with a good attitude and a
plan to start building next year's Pinewood Derby car right away. A
little more engineering and another prayer might give them a champion
outcome.But for me, a mom watching in the wings, I have all the hope I
need.