Match Made By Heaven
Brent walked past the familiar park where he’d often
visit and sit in close proximity to five or six old men who
had erected an old foldout card table to play chess. It had
become an ever-increasing fascination to watch the old men
play for hours on end. Although it had been distracting him
from his studies at the seminary he attended some 300 yards
from the park, something kept driving his regular visits to
the chess masters that would begin playing early in the
morning.; often they’d still be playing until late into the
afternoon.
The weekend had passed and Brent had racked up over forty
chess matches -- routinely won in short order with people
playing over the Internet. His reputable father, the
distinguished surgeon Dr. William Wisor, felt Brent could
use his brainpower to become the great financial success
he’d boast about every time Brent would come home on a long
weekend or for the holidays.
His father had gotten Brent involved in chess when he was
only four year’s old. His father seemed to take an almost
morbid joy in beating his son repeatedly in chess matches
after dinner, when Brent began high school. If Brent had
heard his father ask him this rhetorical question once, he’d
heard it a thousand times after yet another systematic game
won by “Doc Dad”, as Brent good-humouredly called his father
when around his friends. “Son, where‘s your focus?“
Brent’s friends couldn’t tolerate his dad’s pretentious
mannerisms and the smugness he transparently evidenced when
they were asked to come over to supposedly learn how to
think. Invariably, all it involved was Brent playing his
father in three matches of chess and his friend’s observing
him lose to his insolent father’s arrogant self-adornment.
“I’d love to see your dad get his butt stomped by someone in
chess someday,” Kenny told Brent a few days later.
Since that time, Kenny remained Brent’s best friend and had
chosen the same path Brent had and was even his roommate at
the seminary.
Kenny entered their small but neat dorm room and to his
surprise, saw Brent sitting on his bed. Normally, at this
time of day, Kenny would bet his limited banking account on
Brent’s whereabouts -- down at the park watching the old men
playing chess. Today, he watched Brent cry tears of anger in
their dorm room as he restlessly manipulated a chess pawn in
his right hand with his left hand covering his eyes.
“What’s up Brent?” Kenny asked as he softly shut the door
behind him.
“My dad is what’s up! I can’t stand him and he’s my dad,”
Brent shouted through resentment wrought tears. Kenny sat
down on his side of the room while bracing his elbows on his
knees.
“My perfect father called the Dean’s Office and they gave
him my grades! Doctor dad called me and said that my 3.65
wasn’t good enough and threatened to take me out of here and
that he’d make me go back home and attend another school
with a different major,” Brent continued as he heatedly
threw the pawn against the cement block wall.
“What are you goin’ to do now?” Kenny asked.
“Leave me alone Kenny. Just let me pray and calm down,
okay?” Brent answered as he stood up and walked over to
their small window that over-looked the park.
“No problem man,” Kenny softly uttered as he grabbed his
backpack and shut the door behind him.
Brent meditated for about 30 minutes and picked up the
slightly cracked pawn and headed down to the park to watch
the remaining two old men finish their chess game. Brent
thought his facial displays of his earlier felt anger were
gone, but one of the old men could tell something was wrong.
“Son?” the old man asked, “come over here and tell me what’s
on your mind.”
He looked like a gentle grandfather from a Norman Rockwell
painting and so Brent couldn’t find it in himself to refuse
his offer.
“Hi sir, my name is Brent and I go to school up on the
hill.”
The old man smiled and asked him to pull up a lawn chair
that was near the card table.
“I’ve seen you down here before Mr. Brent,” the old man
replied with a chuckle in his voice.
“I take it you like chess?” Brent pulled the lawn chair in a
bit closer before replying, “Yes sir, I love chess but I
can’t stand my dad.”
The old man glanced over and caught his gaze.
“Well, that doesn’t sound good at all. Why do you dislike
your daddy, if you don’t mind me asking?” Quickly it came
out: “My dad’s always putting me down and thinks he’s better
than everyone else is. He is mad at me because I have a ‘B’
in one of my classes.”
The old man chuckled again before he asked Brent an odd
question that seemed to come from left field. “You play your
dad in chess, don’t you? He’s insecure and beats up on
people he knows he can beat up on and you’re sick of it.”
Amazed, Brent listened on: “Your dad feels good when he
wins, but has no joy in his life. Brent, your father needs
you!” the old man finally ended.
“How did you know so much?” Brent exclaimed.
“And what do you mean, my dad needs me? He needs no one but
himself!”
The old man patted Brent’s hand and stated confidently,
“Your dad needs to be humbled. I know you are confused, but
I know your dad fairly well. I’m a retired professor from
the seminary and your father assisted Dr. Walters some
seven-years ago when I had double bypass surgery. Your daddy
was cocky then, and hasn’t learned much has he?” the old man
finally ended with his eyes flattened upon Brent’s face.
Brent had never heard someone speak with such conviction and
more astoundingly, with more accuracy. “No, no sir,” he
spoke with bewilderment.
“So what do I do now, Mr....?”
“Just call me ’Preach’ my friend," the old man answered with
a big grin on his face.
“I believe I could beat your father blindfolded, but it’s
important he gain respect for you because longevity doesn‘t
mean legitimacy.”
“What’s that mean?” Brent inquired.
“It means that your daddy knows how to get to a patient’s
heart, but you can help him learn to emotionally open his
own. There are many old fogies my age who can learn from
many a young heart bent towards heaven.”
“Understood Preach -- anything else?” Preach pushed his
glasses up on the bridge on his nose and continued.
“This is what I want you to do Brent. You go home in a week
or so for Thanksgiving, so play him a whole lot and remember
to smile each time he beats you. The most important question
you need to answer about your daddy is what grabs his
attention the most.”
Hardly puzzled, Brent stated without a moment’s pause,
“Money, money, money! Seriously, that’s all he thinks about
Preach,” he sternly lamented.
“Okay then, you’re on your way to a win and it‘s not you who
will be the only winner; God will win that wandering lone
sheep of the 99 already secure in his fold. Do you see what
I’m getting at Brent?”
Brent knew the scripture he was referring to and immediately
nodded affirmatively.
“Again, remember to smile each time he beats you.”
“Well, I will do what you say but I don’t know where this is
going.”
“Just do it Brent, and when you come back to school, bring
one of your best friends down here and let me know what you
found out about your dad’s play.”
While Brent was home over Thanksgiving, he did as Preach
asked. “Good game dad!” Brent would happily remark after his
father would win each of about four games they’d play each
night after dinner. His father was taken back by Brent’s
easygoing nature and one evening, his even-tempered son’s
smile finally unnerved him and his play.
“Son, why are so relaxed? Don’t you want to be a winner at
anything in . . . ”
His father stopped in mid-sentence as he watched his
cheerful son move his bishop smoothly over in direct
alignment with his King.
“Checkmate dad," Brent calmly informed his panic-stricken
father.
“Hold on here Brent! What did you do here? his father
questioned desperately.
Brent remained calm and asked his father to look at him in
the eyes.
“Dad, it’s very simple what I just did. I beat you. And you
know what? I am a winner in life just to answer your
question. And one more thing dad.”
Brent leaned forward with his jaw resting in both of his
hands with the continued kind smile on his face. His father
nervously looked at his watch and irritably responded, “Yes,
yes, yes, go on!”
“Dad, you seem so, well anyway, my only question, and you
don’t have to answer is, where’s was your focus dad?”
Brent leaned slightly in the wooden kitchen chair and folded
his arms across his chest. His father’s irritability almost
pitifully turned into a look of despondence and he did,
remarkably, answer Brent’s question he himself had so often
asked.
“Brent, my focus was on the peace of mind you had after
you’d lose to me.”
His dad wiped the first tears from his eyes that Brent had
ever seen from his cocky, or maybe not-so-cocky anymore,
father.
“Son, I’ve got money but I’m desperately miserable. You’ve
had a calmness about you son, that I’ve always wondered
about and I guess that is what I was really asking when I’d
inquire about where your focus was.”
Brent got up from the kitchen table and walked over to his
dad and hugged him tightly as his father melted in tears --
crying like even Brent’s mother had never seen her husband
of 24 years weep.
“Dad, the peace I’ve had comes but from one place and if
you’d like to have it, I’ll be more than happy to show you
where you can find it.”
His father looked up and said nothing but simply shook his
head, indicating his willingness to discover this peace his
son had had for so many years.
Brent’s father called and cancelled his appointments for the
upcoming Monday, as he wanted to go to the seminary and find
this elusive peace and joy.
“Why are you stopping here Brent? The school is up the hill
a bit,” his father asked curiously. “I know dad. I want you
to meet a friend of mine--his name is Preach.”
As they walked up to the old foldout card table, Preach
glanced up quickly and directed his attention equally as
quick back to his chess match.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Wisor. I’ve been talking to your son
and he thinks the world of you.”
Brent’s father was more than confused upon hearing this and
remarked, “Hi Preach. Well, it seems Brent’s bragging about
me probably isn’t deserved.”
Before Dr. Wisor could say anything else, Preach replied,
“Dr. Wisor, I didn’t say a single word about your son
bragging on you. I said he sure seems to think the world of
you as I recall,” Preach finished with his eyes steadied on
the chessboard.
“Hi there Preach,” Brent inserted, “looks like you’re
getting ready to lose the first game I’ve ever with this
one.“
Preach looked up at Brent and then turned his attention to
Dr. Wisor with a gentle smile on his face.
“I suppose I am going to lose this one Brent, but it doesn’t
bother me any. You see my friend, my focus wasn’t on the
game, but on meeting your dad and so I made what some folks
would call a mistake.”
“Checkmate,” Preach’s chess partner evenly informed anyone
within listening range. Preach smiled at the old man sitting
across from him, shook his hand, and directed his attention
back to Dr. Wisor.
“God has an uncanny ability in getting our focus back on
him, and sometimes he’ll use failure to get us back on
track. Remember that if you’ve learned from losing, it
wasn’t a loss.” Brent’s father began to wipe his eyes again
as he smiled his first genuine smile in over 20 years.
The remainder of the day was spent at the park and Brent’s
father lost every game he played against Preach, and loved
every minute of it.
B. G. Jett © 2002
bjett1@alltel.net