He walks toward the car, kicking his soccer ball, and I strain my neck to see if he's holding it. All week, he's poured his heart into the one-on-one matches, the footwork, the three-on-three games, the drills. He knows if he works hard, pays attention, gives his best, it will make him a better player. But I know him. I know his drive to be the best. I know how he is carried along on words of affirmation. Deep down, he wants that trophy. The one that says, "I tried my hardest and Coach noticed."
He is red-faced, and his jet-black Korean hair is dripping wet when he crosses the road to the car, evidence that he played hard, worked hard. And so I try my best to see past all the soccer paraphanlaia - the water bottle and the camp t-shirt and the participation medal coach passed out today. His face gives nothing away except the sheer exhaustion from two-and-a-half hours of running.
He throws me a faint smile as he climbs in and gives me his usual, "Hi, Mom." I decide not to bring it up, and I ask how it went. More than anything, I want him to know that if he gives his best at each and every opportunity, he can always be proud of his performance. I will always be proud of his performance.
He slides into the car and bursts into a huge grin and says, "I got the Player of the Day trophy! I knew I could do it if I worked really hard." I smile at his determination, and I know where he gets it. He's just like his mom.
"How awesome to win an award on your special day!" I tell him. (Today is his Family Day. It's the day he flew to America 12 years ago to join our family - to make me a mommy!) "Do you want to call your dad?" I listen to his excitement as he tells his dad about his trophy and his coach's praise, and I watch as he is carried on his dad's words of affirmation.
We have a lot to celebrate tonight. We feast on Mexican food as a family, and we endure the noise and the lights and the energy of their favorite place, the one they always ask for.
And when we're finally home, he crawls in bed, exhausted but happy.
I stretch out across my bed and I see the frame on the wall. The one that says "Moments of Perfection". The one that holds pictures of my first moments with each of my children. And there it is. The exact moment 12 years ago today when they placed him in my arms. I smile remembering the sweet face and the head full of jet, black hair and the whispering past the lump in my throat, "This feels really good!" And I think to myself, "It still feels really good!"
I rejoice in his success today, and I mark the moment he came to us and I thank my Heavenly Father for this precious gift.
Happy Family Day, Josiah!
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