Every night my six-year old son wakes up and climbs into bed with me and his mom. Every single night.
I don't expect Christmas night to be much different save one thing -- he will be wearing his Denver Broncos jersey with the number 15 on his back. He likes Tim Tebow.
He always has -- still squeezing himself into the Tebow college jersey I bought for him a few years back. After all, they have a lot in common. Like Tebow, my son is big and fast and strong. Like Tebow, he's a lefty. And, like Tebow from years gone by, he dreams of playing on TV with "the big boys" one day.
So the Tebow jersey is a special gift from me to him. So special that I couldn't even outsource it to Santa. Because when my son puts on that jersey, he can feel a little bit of what it's like to be Tim Tebow for a while. He can hear the roar of a non-existent crowd. He can direct imaginary teammates. He can see himself on the thirty...the twenty...the ten...and beyond. He dreams the dreams a little boy dreams.
I like Tim Tebow, too, but for different reasons altogether.
I like that he's polite. I like that he's accountable. I like that he chooses to say the right things when saying the wrong ones -- out of anger or frustration -- would be the typical response. I like that his teammates like him, believe in him, follow him. I like that he delivers, time and again, on his promise to toil and fail, and toil again until he succeeds. I like that he loves his parents.
But most of all, I like that Tim Tebow is Tim Tebow, and though he respects those who believe that he should somehow be other, he doesn't care what they think. Not because he is filled with himself or opposed to self-reflection, but because he is authentic, he is convicted, and he is his own man. In a world that so often rewards -- with money, sex, fame, convenience -- those who will do, say or be anything to anyone, Tim Tebow is a rarity.
The unusual man, who in the face of all that the material world has to offer, humbly accepts his place as a servant of God.
Now, that rubs some people the wrong way. Cynical sportswriters and Jake Plummer immediately come to mind. They bristle at the possibility that someone somehow is that good a leader, that good a man. So they attack. He should keep his faith to himself. He's not really a quarterback. The Broncos can't keep winning this way.
But they're just projecting. In truth, consciously or not, they have looked deep inside and have found themselves to be lacking. In some ways, we all have. We live in turbulent times in a troubled world. We live in a great nation, questioning its greatness. War, economic strife, and the myriad bad news streaming live 24/7 blanket us in trepidation and doubt. We don't trust our government, our leaders, or even our notions of right and wrong. Cynicism, consumerism, and abject selfishness rule the public square.
We've lost faith.
But there is hope. Somewhere inside each one of us, in the place where God resides, is the willingness to toil and fail, and toil again. Somewhere inside each one of us is the willingness to find our way. I know that because I see it every Sunday on hundred yard fields where men play a boys' game that simultaneously means nothing, and everything. Under center is Tim Tebow, a reminder not just of what we can be, but of who we can be -- if we believe.
The truth is we need more of Tim Tebow and less of just about everything else.
I know the day will come when my son doesn't climb into bed with us anymore. And when it does, maybe I'll get some more sleep. Then again, maybe I won't. For now, I have Christmas night to look forward to. A big, fast, strong boy fast asleep and clutching a stuffed dog in his majestic left arm. He'll be dreaming the dreams a little boy dreams...the thirty...the twenty...the ten.
He'll be dreaming that someday he'll be like Tim Tebow. And I'll lay awake dreaming that same dream -- whether he ever throws a touchdown pass or not.
