My life's trophies aren't silver and gold...

My goal was to purge the garage, to get rid of 'stuff.' I moved the car to the driveway so I'd have plenty of room. I wanted to make quick work of this unpleasant chore. The sooner I was done, the better. However, after setting aside my husband's Lone Ranger and Tonto figurines from his childhood, and re-wrapping my grandma's pitcher, I came across a box that stopped me cold...well, actually warm. My heart was sent back over thirty years when I came across the box containing trophies that belonged to our grown children. Well, trophy tops, because during my last cleaning binge, all I'd accomplished was to unscrew the tops off of the bases, and save them. But what good were a bunch of trophy tops? I needed the space, so I decided that I'd take their pictures, for memory sake, and then toss them out. So as though my kids were right there, instead of tiny metal people, I photographed them together, then separate by sports, then by each child. When I was done, I scooped them up and headed to the trash. Which is when the little BMX guy fell on to the garage floor. I froze.

I gently laid the other trophy tops on the floor and picked up the little guy. The memories that flooded my heart were so stong I felt as though I could almost reach out and hug my flesh and blood little bike racer, all sweaty and smelling all boy. Dust covered his clothes, and I could barely see those blue eyes twinkling through the dirt on his face. I could, once again, feel the pride and excitement emanating from him, feel it swirl around me. This little, metal, silver boy, helmet on his head, perched on a plain, old cheap bike, had me back at the BMX track, for the very first time, watching my son speed past the other little boys. My son, on his old Schwinn, banana seat, big handlebars, and all, had beat out all the others. Neither their experience, nor their shiny, light-weight, expensive bikes had made any difference. My son had not only captured the audience's hearts, but this precious little trophy, too.

As I ran my finger over this piece of metal, my heart began to ache. I wondered where that had come from. Was it the lost innocence that protects our children from the realities of life? Was it that his life was no longer filled with hours of freedom and fun? Or was it because my dear friend had lost her son in a tragic car accident four years ago, and I was hurting on her behalf? If my heart ached, for whatever reason, about the loss of my son's childhood, how must she feel when memories overtake her? I still have my children. I can call them and hear their voices, get in the car and go visit them, and am so fortunate to be able to share hugs, laughter, and memories with them. My memories are still accumulating, and as precious as the ones of their childhood are, the ones we continue to share are priceless.

I took a deep breath, and wiped the tears off my cheeks before picking through the pile of trophy tops pulling out one of my other favorites. This one was a swimmer, belonging to my youngest son. At age two, he was already fascinated by his siblings' trophies, so I had decided that when his swimming lessons were over, I'd go buy him one. However, the lessons hadn't taught him how to swim, so we'd reverted back to letting him wear his floaties. Because of that, he'd thought he could swim and would jump into the pool any time he got the chance. He had no idea he'd sink, because any time the pool gate was open, his floaties were on. Except once. We'd had a swimming party, and someone had left the gate unlocked, and he'd somehow gotten it open, and was under water when I found him. After coughing, and both of us crying, he was okay, but teaching him how to swim become my top priority. I worked with him every day, and in two weeks he was swimming across the pool and jumping off the diving board. He got his much coveted trophy, this little, metal swimmer, which represents life and triumph, hard work, and memories. The trash was the furthest place in my mind that it should go!

Our daughter's trophy tops were for cheerleading, baton, and modeling. She'd worked so hard for them, and when she finally started winning them, they'd meant more to us than real gold! She'd had a physical problem that had caused her to be marked down at many of her first competitions, but once she finally learned how to compensate for that, she began winning more and more, and we were thrilled. Because of her determination to just keep making adjustments, and never giving up, the little, gold, baton twirler is one of my most precious possessions. Just holding her takes me back to those competitions, and the thrill of victory after many agonizing defeats. Memories of parades long forgtten, cold mornings on football fields wet with dew, and her smile as she marched, cheered, and performed are special times that I will treasure forever.

I couldn't part with the trophy tops. They will stay in the box in the garage where I can pull them out and trace the little silver and gold faces as I remember some of the accomplishments of my children. The memories will reside next to first belly laughs, first steps, and first words. Those memories are joined by first days of school, first times they drove, first dates, weddings, and births of my grandchildren. Memories of my six grandchildren have been piling up so fast that sometimes the lines blur, and I don't recall which one did what, or when, but each memory is covered by so much love it really doesn't matter. My chidren and my grandchildren are MY trophies. They aren't silver and gold, they are flesh and blood, laughter and tears, accomplishments and defeats...laced with disappointments, awe, anger, pride, frustration, worries, joy, and most of all, LOVE.