Through the Storm

"Nice shirt."

Sarcasm, I know.

It's Monday, February 6, 2012,  and my red, white, and blue t-shirt says "Boston Girl" on the front—a dangerous move at a college that, although in Massachusetts, seems to be 90% full of students who hate Boston sports. Even more dangerous? The Patriots had just lost the Super Bowl the night before, so I heard quite a few derisive comparisons of Wes Welker to a certain Nestle candy bar.

If a few more plays had gone New England's way, it would have made perfect sense for me to step outside on Monday morning and join the dozens of students adorned in Patriot attire to celebrate our Super Bowl win, but nobody wears their team's jersey after a playoff loss. Right?

Well, that's what I hate.

Wally Szczerbiak

I've been a sports fan since elementary school, before the string of titles for the Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics, and Bruins made Boston "The City of Champions." I cheered for the Celtics in 2006, when they had the second-worst record in the league, when they lost 18 games in a row, when #5 was worn by Gerald Green instead of Kevin Garnett. I watched nearly every game, and not just because I thought Wally Szczerbiak was cute. The Celtics were terrible, yeah—but they were my team.

We all know what happened the next season. The Celtics acquired future hall-of-famers Garnett and Ray Allen over the summer, and in June the "Big Three" beat out the Lakers to earn the 17th championship in franchise history. Suddenly, Boston was going green.

Attendance at the Garden went up by 2,000 fans a game; Pierce, Garnett, and Allen shirts flew off the shelves at Sports Authority stores across New England; Rajon Rondo was hailed as the future of Celtics basketball; and Brian Scalabrine became a local legend. January and February was no longer just the frozen desert between NFL playoffs and Red Sox spring training; the Celtics were relevant again.

I'll be honest, this drives me crazy. If you didn't suffer through Tony Battie's missed layups, if you don't want to cry when you think about Vin Baker's bloated contract/body, and if the words "I . . . love . . . WALTER!" mean nothing to you, then why on earth do you think you get to spray champagne and skip work to head into Boston for the championship parade? You didn't endure the torture, the heartbreak, the downright agony—and yet you think you can waltz right in and join the Celtics' bandwagon? You don't deserve it.

If I sound bitter, it's because I am. Nobody likes a fair-weather fan. 

Unfortunately, I've realized that there are a whole lot of them around; even worse, I've realized that sometimes I can be one, too.

I spent part of Super Bowl Sunday at the hospital this year, visiting my dad as he awaited open-heart surgery. I worry about passing in a less-than-perfect homework assignment or wearing earrings that don't match my shirt, so seeing my dad lying in a bed hooked up to a whole bunch of tubes and wires kind of freaked me out. Since I'm not the type of person who voluntarily opens up about what's bothering me, I am so thankful to have amazing friends who actually took the time to see how I was doing. 

Over the two weeks my dad was in the hospital, a typical conversation with my roommate went something like this:

Taylor: How's your dad?

Me: He's okay.

Taylor: How are you?

Me: I'm okay.

Taylor: Well, if you want to talk, I'm here.

Me: Thanks.

It doesn't seem like much, I know, but it was nice just to know that somebody would be there for me if I needed help. I received phone calls, texts, emails, and Facebook messages from people I hadn't really kept in touch with, just telling me that they were praying for my family and that they were there to talk if I needed support. My friend Emily even woke up at 5 AM to call me from halfway across the country and pray with me while my dad was heading into surgery. 

As Eminem would say, true friends are there for you through the storm, whatever weather, cold or warm.

Thankfully, my dad's surgery went wonderfully and he's now recuperating at home (Random story: a few days ago, he was up taking a nap when I heard him calling my name. I ran upstairs to help him out because I was afraid his chest was hurting or he felt sick. What was wrong? His sheets were too tight and he wanted me to loosen them for him. Why were they too tight? They were wrapped underneath his own legs. Gotta love him).

I am so grateful that my dad is all right. I thank God for keeping him safe and for giving the doctors the ability to perform the procedure. But it got me thinking: if the surgery didn't go well—if my dad wasn't okay—would I still thank God?

Honestly, I don't think I would. I'd probably think He let me down. I'd probably be so angry at him that I'd stop praying or praising His name. I definitely wouldn't be reppin' Him by wearing His jersey.

When things don't go my way, I immediately blame God. Why did you let me get injured? Why didn't you help me get into that college? Why didn't you heal him/her? I'm so quick to throw Him under the bus and act like it's all His fault that things aren't going right. 

When it comes to God, I'm a fair-weather fan.

When Paul and Silas were thrown into prison, they didn't blame God; they praised Him. One of my favorite hymns, "It is Well with My Soul", was written after all four of the author's daughters were killed in a ship accident. How could he praise God after such a terrible tragedy?

Is there any greater testimony?

Enduring trials not only builds character, but it also earns respect. Anyone can praise God when they have friends and money—when they're #winning—but it's truly spectacular to see someone praising God when they're broke and jobless, when they've been hurt or betrayed. Is there any greater testimony to the wondrousness of God's plan and God's faithfulness than to trust in Him when things seem to be spiraling out of control?

Wearing a Boston shirt on the morning after the Patriots lost was easy, but representing God when things aren't going right? That's hard. Just like the Celtics are still my team even if they lose eighteen games in a row, God should still be  my God even when everything's going wrong.

I don't want to only praise Him when it's 75 degrees and sunny with a nice gentle breeze; I want to praise Him through the sleet and the heat waves and the hurricanes. If I glorify Him through the trials, then I'll deserve to celebrate with Him at His final victory parade.

People may make fun of me—actually, they definitely will—but if I can withstand ridicule just because of how much I love a football team, then shouldn't I be able to withstand it for the God who gave His own life for me?

I'm done being a fair-weather fan.