S is for SATURDAY

I don't remember much about Saturdays before I as twelve. I didn't sit up for Match of the Day because it didn't exist yet but I do recall Saturday nights in front of the box, watching Doctor Who, Dixon of Dock Green and The Black and White Minstrel Show. The first doctor was an old man with long grey hair, though it could have been any colour on our black and white TV set and he fought bravely against Daleks and Cybermen who seemed so much more mysterious and scary on a grainy monochrome picture than they do now. Saturday night was also bath night, sometimes in a large basin in front of the fire and also Sunday School lessons learning night, but the rest of the day is a bit of a blur. There was no children's TV on a Saturday morning but I don't remember ever being bored so I guess I just got outside and made my own fun with a ball or on the bike.
By the time I had reached second year in grammar school, rugby had taken over my winter Saturday mornings and often most of the day and this was a pattern that would continue for the next twenty five years, both with school and club so there was little point in trying to make plans to do anything else that day. It was an enjoyable time, travelling in the bus to different schools and the further I moved through school, the closer I got to the back of the bus. The teachers always occupied the front seats but when the singing started near the rear, just a glance and a frown over their shoulders was enough to restore order. The worst times were when an important rugby or football game was on the box and we were still making our way home from an away match and, since there were no highlights programmes, if you missed the live action, your best bet was to catch thirty seconds on the evening news. After I left school, the whole of Saturday before a game revolved around the game itself, building up properly, being mentally prepared for kick-off at half past two, eating properly and trying to get as much rest in the morning, but often it didn't work out that way, with so many other things to fit in and sometimes amounted to little more than ten minutes before a game started. Still, I loved the game and the competition and when it all came to an end for me, it was just about to begin for my son, so like the good father that I was, I insisted on watching him at school, home and away and now that he has moved on to a club, I find myself still on the move on a Saturday. So, like I say, rugby still takes over my winter Saturdays. For a couple of years in between, I had a brief affair with football again as our local side Loughgall, moved through the ranks, winning all before them and, apart from being an avid supporter, also tried to give something back by becoming programme editor and announcer for a couple of seasons. So in a sense, I suppose, Saturday has always been a day set aside for sport.
Saturday was the day that John died. He was the son of our good friends and fellow school rugby parents and had risen to play for his country at under age level. A friend and I sat in our living room, watching Ireland in the Six Nations when a single phone call totally changed our focus and put sport firmly in its proper place. I tried to imagine the anguish his parents were feeling as they tried to confirm the worst, how his school mates would react when they discovered the passing of their captain and also how we all, as parents who had developed a close bond watching our boys would cope with our own grief and yet try to support his mum and dad, sister and brother in their most tragic moment of loss. Had he survived, I guess John would have lived for two thirty on a Saturday afternoon just as hid dad had done alongside me for years.

Saturday was also the day that the doctor confirmed our worst fears. As mum sat in her chair in that small side ward in hospital, he seemed to encourage her with his words that she would not be having an operation for her illness. And in mum's face, I never detected a moment's doubt, until caught the nurse's smile, which said a thousand words but hid many more. I glanced at my sister which only confirmed that she too understood what had not been said and as she and mum chatted inside, the doctor expounded on the terminal nature of mum's disease. We didn't tell her until Monday. We needed time to reflect ourselves on such devastating news and to prepare the close family for what lay ahead. It was a bad Saturday. Tears flowed, prayers were said and sport was nowhere to be seen. And yet my final memory is of our son, sitting at the electric piano and playing 'It is well with my soul' over and over again. We sat on the couch, helpless and heartbroken and yet, somewhere, though that music God was saying, 'it will be OK because your mum's soul is well even if her body isn't.'

I still love Saturday, for the chance to break the routines of the week, to still take in some sport, to go and have coffee with the wife but also it's a time to reflect on the many Saturdays that I'd rather not have had to live through and yet each in its own way has been important in how God has taught me to depend on him when I don't understand what is happening around me. And His promise through Isaiah is 'So do not fear, for I am with you;do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.'

Today is Saturday. May God uphold you today in the same way that He has helped me and in Him may you find the strength for tomorrow.