It was a mild winter’s day. The day one of my sons shared a video of his family singing in church was January 26. Rain had been washing away the snow that was no longer white. Tracks in the snow showed the grass below and coronavirus had made its appearance in Toronto. It was the day after lawyers perjured themselves in the impeachment trial of the 45th president of the United States saying that he had done no wrong. It was the day Kobe Bryant died. It was a day of hidden giants.
When you start singing about your work your gravitas hits jackpot. Your profession is in high gear and no one can doubt that you are the real deal. Imagine that David never wrote a song. Imagine that Jesus never died. Imagine that your son charts a course that mirrors your life in all the ways that parents think are important and you know history is definitely being made.
Giant heroes are everywhere. They bring you untold records of life’s extremes. The joy and sadness of being a fan of life enrich us with the same sign: tears. I have always felt extraordinarily fortunate to have had a rich set of companions but few situations can rival the discovery of a first class fanclub hidden in plain sight.