Some things hit closer to home than others.

Like the case of this week’s news surrounding the child sex abuse scandal at Pennsylvania State University.

I grew up with Nittany Lions in my backyard. Half my graduating class either applied to or attended Penn State or one of its many satellite campuses. Paw prints and HPV magnets are stuck on hundreds of cars around here.

I’ll never forget the joke my seventh grade science teacher told us almost every Friday afternoon in the fall: Why is the sky blue and white?

Because God’s a Penn State fan.

But we never really cheered for those colors, my family and I. We were Patriots fans, Red Sox, Celtics. We didn’t root for the home team, so to speak.

And today, as I sit here reading over the reports, the horrifying, painful details of each victim’s allegations, I’ve never been less of a fan. And I doubt God is either.

How could He be when innocent children were so frighteningly violated? When the people who were supposed to protect them didn’t? When the whistles that blew every day on the field fell silent off of it?

I don’t get it. And I don’t get why we’re not more outraged. Like on facebook. I’ve heard more complaints about the time change than I have from the locals about this scandal. How can that be?

It reminds me of when Rainey was in first grade. The school was hosting a “Keep Me Safe” program for kids that gently talked about the issue of sexual abuse. Parents were welcome and even encouraged to attend, especially if they had any questions or concerns regarding this sensitive topic.

I was the only one who showed up.

If anything, I wanted Rainey to know that I was there, that I was an advocate, that I’d always be her safe place to run.

We talked about that this afternoon when we were driving home from our homeschool co-op, after she overheard me tell someone about my current status as a Penn State fan.  She asked me why. Instead of brushing it off, I decided to dive in discreetly.

“A former football coach has been accused of doing bad things to some children,” I explained.

“Like what?” she wondered.

Carefully, I replied, “he touched them where no one should ever touch a child. Do you know what I mean?”

“In their private parts?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “and some people knew he was doing this, some people even saw him doing it, and they never went to the police. They tried to keep it one big secret.”

“Why wouldn’t they tell?” she seemed as flabbergasted as me.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. But that’s why I’m so upset. It was bad enough that this man did those things to children. But for other people to know about it and do nothing, that’s just as awful.”

We talked for several more minutes, reviewing what she’s to do in the unimaginable event someone ever tried to do the same thing to her. And I reassured her that she can always come to me, no matter what. No secrets allowed.

“But what if the person holds a gun to your head?” she asked when I vowed to go to the police if I knew someone did that to a child – mine or anyone else’s.

“Then I’d dare him to pull the trigger.”

I went on to clarify that most people who make threats like that are afraid of getting caught, that they’ll try anything to scare kids into not tattling.

“But you go right ahead and tattle. It’s okay, you’ve got my permission.”

We rode for a minute or two in silence, then she said, “I hope those boys aren’t really badly hurt.”

And something inside me ached – for the victims involved, for their parents, for myself. I tried to explain that no, those boys probably don’t have any bumps or bruises to show, no bandaids or bleeding, but their hearts were indeed hurt. That trust is something kids feel, too. And when that is damaged, it can hurt worse than any cut ever will.

“I don’t think I’m a Penn State fan, either,” she said quietly as we pulled into the driveway, and after putting the car in park, I turned around and looked at my daughter and said, “Let’s make a deal. I’ll root for you, and you root for me, and we’ll let God deal with Penn State, ok?”

We shook on it, and I held her hand tightly as we walked through the yard, praying she be kept safe from lions everywhere, nittany or otherwise.

Nobody likes a poor sport. Unless, of course, she’s your daughter.

For the second year in a row, Rainey is playing in a competitive soccer league, and that means, for the second year in a row, she sits on the bench. A lot. But she doesn’t seem to mind. 

“I like that my friends get to play instead,” she told me after one of her games recently.  Apparently she’s just happy to be a part of the team. 

It doesn’t help, though, that her tendency to be anxious and easily distracted is often magnified on the wide-open field.  When she should be paying attention, Rainey’s eyes are usually skyward, watching an airplane whiz by or guessing cloud formations.  Or sometimes she worries about Lilla, unable to hustle until she’s got a visual on her younger sister’s whereabouts on the sidelines. This lack of focus often translates into even more time riding the pine.

To complicate matters, I’m the assistant coach. And the hardest part of the job is keeping my mouth shut, especially when Rainey’s feet are on the field but her head is in the clouds. Every game I pledge to be positive, to cheer for Rainey and to keep from criticizing, but I fail. Often. Like the time I very publicly pointed out a mistake during one of her tournaments. I’ll never forget how she glared at me from her position and shouted, “Mom, why can’t you just encourage me instead?”

Or last Sunday, when she was warming up on the sidelines and accidentally kicked a ball onto the field during a play that was going in our favor, costing us an indirect kick. She instantly flushed red, and instead of recognzing her humiliation, I added to it by sternly instructing her to sit down on the bench.

Unfortunately, that’s where she stayed. For the rest of the game.

Because of her embarassment, she stubbornly refused to rotate into the game and relieve her tired teammates. So we rode home in silence that day, both of us too upset to speak. By evening I completely gave up on her young soccer career.

Before finally falling asleep that night, I decided I’d come down hard on Rainey in the morning. I’d force her to apologize to her teammates for her bad sportsmanship, and then I’d expect her to pay me back – in time and money – for every game she didn’t play her best. If she refused, I’d make her quit the sport she says she loves. I was adamanent, and she could tell I wasn’t kidding when I bull-headedly verbalized my demands to her the next day.

“No way!” she balked while making her bed, and within minutes, I knew I was getting nowhere. So I decided to take a walk with Wesley instead. While I pushed his stroller and huffed around the neighborhood, I prayed.

I prayed for this girl who drives me nuts sometimes. This girl whose favorite subject is daydreaming (she has the T-shirt). This girl who’s so sensitive I swear I can hear her spirit breaking. This girl who obviously cares more about her siblings than scoring goals.

And then I remembered this girl is not even a dozen years old, and this game is just a game. And the qualities that make her a bench warmer on the soccer team are the exact same qualities that make her a creative, caring, incredible human being.

I quickly turned the stroller around, and when I dashed through the front door, I found Rainey on the living room floor, reading, and I took her face in my cold hands, looked in her eyes and said, “Forget everything I just said to you about soccer. I was wrong. I love you for who you are, not for what you can do or what you’ll become, and that’s all that matters.”

“Does that mean I can go to my indoor game tonight?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes,” I replied, “and I promise to keep from interfering.”

“Thanks, Mommy,” she smiled, and later that night, she apologized to her teammates on her own and went on to play the best game I’ve ever seen her play.

Riding home, I was so proud and pleased with my daughter, I couldn’t help but pray out loud,

Lord, I’m so glad you’re not impressed with our abilities and status and human qualifications. I’m so happy you don’t expect perfect performance from us either. You know our limitations. You understand our weaknesses. Thank you for taking them all and making them into a beautiful design so that every accomplishment and victory – like the small one we witnessed tonight on the soccer field – clearly comes from You and Your power working in us. In Your name I pray, Amen.

He’s the funniest guy I know, my brother is, the one I shared a womb with for seven months. The one who almost didn’t make it out because of that cord wrapped around his neck. And you could say life has given him trouble from the very start, that some Force has been out to get him, but you’d never know it to look at him. Or to listen to him. Because you’re too busy laughing.

I remember sitting on his kitchen counter late one night, riveted by his recounting of the war in Iraq, how as a scout he was caught in the enemy’s crosshairs dozens of times, how he risked his life for the guys riding along in his humvee, how he had to make gut-wrenching decisions that affected the lives of innocent civilians. And I was laughing hysterically. Not because it’s funny. Hardly. But because he made the hideous, hilarious.

His wife walked out on him just days before that night I sat on his Formica, hours before I landed on the doorstep of his military housing, and he was devastated. But during the four or five days I spent with him, scouring his house, stocking his cupboards, teaching him family recipes, I’d never laughed so hard in my life. I was supposed to be helping him, but somehow the reverse was true, somehow he ended up ministering to me. And somehow, I told myself, if he could just keep his stellar sense of humor, he’d make it through this one alive, too.

And he did. Brilliantly. Only now he’s not just the funniest guy I know, he’s also the greatest dad.

For the past five years, as the sole custodial parent, my brother has forged a remarkably strong bond with his two young daughters, making countless sacrifices on their behalf. He got out of the military just a few years shy of retirement to avoid the risk of another deployment. He took a job with less pay but flexible hours so he could be home before his girls left for school and after they returned. He slept on an air mattress for years so the girls could have their own private rooms.

He braids their hair, reads to them at night, and even calls his ex-wife every evening so they can say goodnight to their mom. He coaches their basketball teams, shops for training bras, and sticks love notes in their lunch boxes.

And he does it all with a smile, even though some days I’m sure he’d love to cry.

But the best part is that I’m not the only one who notices; his girls get it, too. They know they are loved, they know they have a gem for a dad. And recently they decided to let him know in his lunch box, too.

It seems they also got his sense of humor, which is awesome, especially coming from him. Along with everything else, he’s teaching his daughters (and the rest of us he amuses along the way) that life doesn’t have to stop being funny when it haunts or hurts. We can still laugh in spite of it. In fact, that’s when we need a good belly laugh the most.

And I have a feeling, with two girls about to hit their teenage years, he’s going to need a few of those himself.

Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones (Proverbs 16:24).

Blogger’s Note: Many thanks to my brother, Ben, for the use of these images, to Danielle, for taking that great picture, and to Michelle, for inspiring me to put it all online.

It’s official: I’m a bad horrible tooth fairy. And not just because I’m cheap.  I’m forgetful, too.

Just the other day Lilla lost a bottom canine tooth after it spent what seemed like decades dangling by a dental thread. She proudly showed it – and the oozing bloody gap it left behind – to her grossed-out family, friends, and piano teacher, and then scavenged the recycling bin (aka her bedroom) for a decent receptacle to put it in. She finally decided to mount it on two used erasers perched on top of an old jelly jar she decoupaged with colorful tissue paper. For a final dramatic flare, she covered it with the lid of her peach-flavored lip gloss. Apparently, putting it under her pillow is SO last week.

Early the next morning, I startled myself awake after realizing I’d forgotten to slip a quarter underneath her pillow before I went to bed. As expected, a few minutes later, she called to me from her bedroom, her disappointment as clear as the blue sky outside my window, and it instantly reminded me of a similar predicament a few years ago involving her older sister.

“Mom!” Rainey yelled, “The tooth fairy forgot my tooth!”

“Really?” I asked when I got to her room, hoping a quarter may have somehow magically made its way under her pillow the night before.  But sure enough, after reaching under her pillow and feeling around, my fingers found her tiny fallen tooth instead.

With a pretend look of shock and dismay, I said, “Wow, honey, I’m so sorry he forgot.”  (For some reason, I’ve always thought the Tooth Fairy was a man.)  “Maybe he was sick last night,” I reasoned. “You know, a lot of people have called in sick to work lately because of the swine flu.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Rainey raised an eyebrow and shrugged, clearly not convinced.

“Why don’t we stick it under your pillow again,” I suggested. “I bet he’ll be feeling better tonight.”

So Rainey agreed and slid her tooth back under her bedding.

The next night, after she’d fallen asleep, Scott and I went to retrieve the tooth and found a note along with it that read:

Dear Totth Fariy,

I lost my totth.  It’s under my pellow.  My friend says she gets 5 bucks from you.  I am wondering if that kood happen to me to.

Love,

Rainey O.

We giggled quietly as we read it and stepped out in the hallway to discuss how to handle her request.

“That’s quite a mark-up,” Scott commented.  “Do you think we should give it to her?”

“Of course,” I whispered.

“But don’t you think she’s manipulating us?” Scott asked.

“Maybe,” I conceded, “but I feel guilty for blowing it last night.”

So we decided to slip the inflated amount under her pillow but with a note of our own:

Dear Rainey,

Thank you for your tooth! I’m sorry I couldn’t take it last night.  Usually I deliver quarters but here’s five dollars to help make up for my absence.

Love,

TTF

The following morning, Rainey stood at my bedside, toothlessly grinning and proudly displaying her five dollar bill two inches from my face.

“Wow,” I mumbled into my pillow, “the Tooth Fairy must be on the mend.”

“Yep,” Rainey chirped as she started to read the letter.  Then she skipped to the kitchen with five bucks in her pocket to enjoy a bowl of cereal.

“Well,” Scott said as he rolled over, “I think we rectified that situation.”

And I agreed, wishing at the time that all my parenting mistakes could be solved by throwing money at them.  By now I’d definitely be broke. My kids have lost quite a few teeth, and they still have plenty left to lose.

But over the years, I’ve accepted that as long as I’m mothering, I’ll be making mistakes. But forgetting and failing are what keep me real, what keep me humble and growing. Without mistakes, I’d be living a shallow, unapproachable existence. I think I’d rather fail and learn to live with it instead.

So last night, while Lilla slept, I gently dismantled the shrine she erected for her lost tooth and rested a quarter in its place. Then I took that tooth, that symbol of my baby growing older, and placed it in another jar with the rest of their baby teeth, safely keeping these precious reminders that though I may fall, something bigger and better is on its way.