I FLEW A LITTLE

Joyce Peachey Lind

My neighbor, Nathan, is four years old. His mother and I are good friends, and we talk to each other almost daily. I go to their house for coffee from time to time, but sometimes I go to their house, just to talk with Nathan, and to hear about the world from his perspective. Nathan tells me about dinosaurs—how huge they are, and where they live. He tells me what things aren’t safe, like rollerblading without kneepads. He sometimes tells me wild stories with wide eyes and great expression.

A couple of weeks ago, Nathan’s mom phoned to tell me his latest "funny." Nathan came racing to tell her, "Mom! I flew a little!" He had been leaping and jumping around the living room and sailed onto the couch—flying as he went. He was convinced he had defied gravity—and flown!

Carmen and I chuckled about that. But after I hung up, I thought how wonderful it would be if more of us were able to recognize and proudly proclaim the times we "flew a little." For certainly all of us have had times of flying a little—even if no one else saw, even if no one else believed. We’ve all had times when we knew in our hearts that we had flown.

Growing up Mennonite I think I absorbed more than my share of humility. I got the idea that boasting was a terrible thing to do. If I accomplished something, it was fine to smile and say "Thank you" when complimented—but improper to tell anyone how good I felt about what I had done. Even my smile and my thanks were done in an "Oh, I didn’t do anything special" kind of way. Reveling in success was out of the question, and people who did so were show-offs.

But recently I’ve been urged to own my accomplishments, to hold them up proudly, to acknowledge them, and yes, even to tout them. Oh, how difficult! My Mennonite sensibilities scream at me to be humble, to be less, to be least. But in devaluing my accomplishments, I have often devalued myself. And that keeps me from being whole.

I remember one of the first times I played piano at the offertory in my home church—a congregation of 400-500 people. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about making mistakes but also because rather than a hymn arrangement I was playing music from a movie soundtrack. I wasn’t sure how that would go over!

But I played the piece. It was a beautiful arrangement, and I played it well. Sitting down in the pew afterward, I smiled inwardly. I had flown! A few days later I received a note from a member of our congregation, thanking me for playing and telling me that he appreciated the music. The affirmation was genuine, and I reveled—inwardly—in believing that I had "done it well" and it had been meaningful to someone else.

That note made a lasting impression on me, maybe because I wasn’t really going to own my accomplishment until someone else recognized it too. I was in church after all. That music was really supposed to be for God.

In my current congregation, school athletes and coaches sometimes ask for prayer for teammates during sharing time. On other occasions they share results of tournaments or report on upcoming sports events. At times I’ve wondered about the appropriateness of this. Athletics in church, of all things! Again, I suppose it is my Mennonite upbringing that whispers to me, telling me that sports don’t belong in the "spiritual" realm.

But in the last couple of years, my perspective has changed. Our son Jake is contributing to that transformation. His experience of being guided by caring, mentoring adults, and learning to work with his teammates toward a common goal has given me a new understanding: When those athletes and coaches ask for prayers, they aren’t asking out of an obsessive dedication to winning. They’re requesting prayers for their community of players—for people they care about.

Jake is an enthusiastic and serious athlete. As a one-year-old, one of his first words was ball. As a five-year-old he learned how to play a game that involved kicking a ball and strategically placing it in a net being guarded by an opponent. He was hooked. At age 11, he has grown into a skilled defensive soccer player. Jake does his part for the team, though he doesn’t typically score goals.

Last year, during one of the league games, the coach put Jake on offense. He was in a position of trying to get the ball into the goal (of his opponent), instead of keeping it out of his own.

I wasn’t paying much attention to the game that afternoon, until I heard the parents from our team cheering and shouting. I looked up in time to see Jake gliding down the field, dribbling the ball, an opponent close at his heels. We held our breaths as we watched him shoot, and the ball sailed past the goalie’s arms. I saw Jake’s feet come back and touch the ground. He flew a little that afternoon.

It wasn’t a heroic goal, it wasn’t a last minute tie-breaker. It was just one exciting moment in a not-so-special game. But for Jake, it was a glorious day.

After the game Jake replayed for us just how the ball happened to get to him, what he was thinking, how he got past his challenger, how his foot kicked the ball. He reveled in his flight. And though neither my husband nor I love soccer quite like our son does, we shared his excitement as we drove home.

Each of us has our moments of flying, those times when our feet leave the ground, and in some magical way we hang suspended in air—savoring the experience for just a moment before we land back on solid earth.

So I hope that the next time I fly a little I have the wild abandon—like my neighbor Nathan—to race back to my husband, my friend, or my neighbor to tell them all about it. To tell them that I flew a little, and isn’t it wonderful, and isn’t it surprising!

And I hope my husband, my friend, or my neighbor will smile—even if they don’t quite believe me, even if they don’t quite get it—and savor the joy with me.

—Joyce Peachey Lind is a mother, teacher, and musician who lives in Harrisonburg, Virginia. She is pursuing an M.A.T. in Early Childhood Education at James Madison University.