Chess with Keegan

“Wanna play chess with me, Grandma?”

 “Absolutely!”

Who could resist such an enthusiastic invitation from an adorable ten-year old? I tried to remember the last time I’d played. Maybe when his dad was his age? I felt sure I remembered the rules, though. Keegan set up the board and made his first move. A few moves later, he took my bishop with one of his pawns by moving it diagonally.

“You can’t do that!” I protested. “Pawns can only move forward.”

“Unless they’re capturing a piece.”

Something about his logic did sound vaguely familiar and I began to doubt my memory. “Who taught you how to play chess?” I asked.

He named one of his friends. Figured. Oh well. I’d humor the kid and play by his rules. Then he tried to tell me if my pawn made it all the way to his end, I could exchange it for a captured piece.

“No, no, no, Keegan. You’re confusing it with checkers.”

“Well, that’s how I play.” As if that settled everything.

A few moves later, we began arguing about whether I had his queen in check.

“No Grandma. It’s the king you’re trying to check.”

“No, it’s the queen. You need to protect your queen.” How on earth could we finish a game when we weren’t playing by the same rules? He beat me on the first round, according to his rules. I beat him the second time, but it was a most unsatisfactory win because we were playing two different games.

Finally, in frustration, I grabbed my phone and Googled chess rules. Turns out the kid was right.

Don’t you just hate when that happens?

Keegan didn’t hold it against me or rub it in my face. We played one more game. He beat me fair and square, and I realized a quick brush-up before we started could have prevented a lot of squabbling.

Does this sound at all like life? You’re trying to do your best, maybe in your relationships or at your job—but somebody else isn’t playing by the same rules. How can anyone ever win?

Jesus Christ didn’t play by the rules, either. He came into a world where the law and all its expanded tenets weighed heavily on people’s shoulders. When he went around breaking the rules, the religious rule-makers became so agitated, they plotted to kill him. Religion is crazy, isn’t it?

Want to disarm people? Try following Jesus’ example. A disgruntled customer comes to the counter, yelling and swearing at the clerk who really has no authority over the situation. But instead of playing by the customer’s rules and raising her own voice, the clerk speaks softly.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. I can understand why you feel angry.”

Often, it’s enough for the person to start calming down. Playing by their rules only escalates the drama.

A neighbor wrongs you. Instead of retaliating or shaming them on social media, you break their rule and seek peace—even in the middle of your pain and loss. You gain a friend, a loyal neighbor. You teach your children the power of forgiveness. You sleep better at night.

Is that possible?

Maybe we should ask some ten-year-olds.

The Day I Stepped Out of Line

I should know better than to go to a certain retail outlet on a busy Friday afternoon, but I needed to grab a birthday gift for our grandson. In spite of the crowds, it didn’t take long to find the desired Lego set plus a couple of things for myself in the cosmetics department. With my purchases in hand, I made my way to the express lane where you don’t know which cashier will serve you until you get to the front of the line. About ten people waited ahead of me, but the line was moving quickly.

Just as I reached the front and stood waiting for that magical “Please proceed …” instruction, an employee flagged me and said, “I can help you at Customer Service.”

I obediently followed her, but when we got there, someone else had arrived at her counter—someone whose shopping cart bulged with groceries they were buying on credit. The clerk gave me a sheepish glance and started taking care of her customer. I looked longingly back at the express line to see if I might be able to sneak back in, but another ten people had accumulated. I stayed put. 

I’m not sure how much time went by, but I watched while the Customer Service clerk scanned the cartload of groceries, stopping intermittently to answer the phone or call for assistance. At some point she made an error and needed to start over. Three or four people now waited in line behind me. By this time, I was pretty sure the guy who’d been behind me in the original line was at home in his jammies. I started looking around for the hidden camera that would land me on Just for Laughs.

The waiting provided ample time for me to realize I had two choices. I could become bent out of shape, maybe even make a scene. I could call the clerk names and later rant about the store on Facebook. If I wanted to, I could probably work myself into a real dither.

Or, I could go easy on my blood pressure and remind myself of a few things, like:

1.      The fact that the clerk meant well. She really did have good reason to believe she was speeding progress when she called me out of that line.

2.      The fact that the clerk looked quite young. Could this be her first job? Possibly even her first week on the job? I remember those stressful, scary days.

3.      The fact that I was in no real rush, and even if I had been—would an extra ten minutes make much difference in the big picture? 

Click here to hear the song.

I started humming a song that Agapeland came out with when our kids were little. Maybe you know it. Herbert the Snail sings:

“Have patience, have patience, don’t be in such a hurry.

When you get impatient, you only start to worry.

Remember, remember, that God is patient, too.

And think of all the times when others have to wait for you.” 

My patience was rewarded when I finally stepped to the counter and the manager said my purchases would be free.

Actually, I made that part up.

But on my way home, I came across a multi-vehicle accident in which I’d probably have died had I left the store ten minutes earlier.

Actually, I made that part up, too.

But I did leave the store with my dignity—and the clerk’s—still intact. Sometimes patience is the only reward required.

Dad's Patience Remembered

Call me spoiled, but I owned my own car before I had a driver’s license. And what a sweet ride it was! A 1974 ogre-green Dodge Dart.

I was never one of those teenagers itching to get behind the wheel. My sixteenth birthday went by without much thought toward my license. Then my seventeenth came and went.

I guess Dad decided enough was enough. I attended a Christian boarding school 800 kilometers from home, and each time I had a break from school, Dad would make the round trip to fetch me home, then a second round trip to take me back a week or two later. When presented with a deal on the Dart, my parents saw it as an opportunity to save time and money in the long run. They bought the car. 

This one looks pretty close to the one I had, I think.

Now to convince Terrie she needed to learn to drive before it was time to return for Grade 12.

I passed the written test with no problem and received my learner’s permit. Mom let me drive the 25 kilometers home, but I think she had only one nerve left when we got there. 

Home alone a few days later, I decided to practice parallel parking in our spacious backyard. Dad had some brand new eaves troughs waiting to be installed and I decided they would work well to represent the cars I needed to park between. How I drew that conclusion when I couldn’t even see them from the driver’s seat is beyond me. Maybe I figured I’d feel them, like speed bumps. I laid the troughs along the ground and started maneuvering the car into place. 

Did you know a 1974 Dodge Dart will flatten a brand new eaves trough like long johns through the wringer? 

At least I learned one thing that day.

Dad calmly hammered his eaves trough back into shape, but it never looked the same.

The next time I climbed behind the Dart’s steering wheel, Dad rode shotgun and we were going all the way from Amaranth to Winnipeg to pick up Mom. I putzed along at about 65 kilometers an hour for the first while, Dad patiently telling me to take all the time I needed and accelerate when I felt comfortable doing so. Eventually I reached the speed limit and cars stopped whizzing around us. 

Naturally, I assumed we’d pull over and switch seats long before we got into city traffic. But to my surprise, Dad navigated me all the way to my aunt’s house in Winnipeg where Mom waited, no doubt wondering what was taking us so long. That trip gave me the confidence I needed to take my driving test and pass. I figured I was good to go. 

But Dad had one more lesson for me. Before he’d allow me to hit the highway on my own, he needed to know I could change a tire. First, he explained the process. Then he parked himself in his favorite lawn chair to watch the show, a cold drink in one hand and a fly swatter in the other. I had to change the tire from start to finish, all by myself.

I haven’t changed a tire since.

Ten years later, my father passed away. Dad’s concern for my safety and his patient teaching are memories I cherish. Given the option, I still avoid driving in general and parallel parking in particular. But I’ve maintained my maximum number of driver’s merit points for nearly 40 years, so Dad must have done something right.

I miss that guy. 

Happy Father’s Day.