By Sharon K. Tschannen
Friends thought it, but only one would ask, ?How could you let your son drive a race car?? The question deep in my own heart was, ?How could I not??
From atop my perch on the bleachers, even before my son was born, while he was still snug in my womb, I had a feeling he was already welcoming the hum of engines, programming his DNA to love racing. A whiff of rubber, the fragrance of fuel, would soon be an agreeable aroma to his senses. My husband, Tom, cherished the sport of auto racing and respected its drivers. His dream of having a son who shared a love for the sport would soon become a reality. Saturday nights at Avilla Speedway in Indiana would set the stage. From their seats on the bleachers, father and son predicted the winner of every heat, and Tom pointed out the skilled drivers Mike should focus on. Every time an engine revved it reinforced the covenant between father and son.
Tom rejoiced when, finally, Mike had matured enough to enter the pits. Here was the real action; the real nuts and bolts of racing. Their ears were attentive while drivers shouted instructions and pit crews adjusted tire pressures and checked fuel gauges. If Tom detected a team in distress, he would lend a hand. He acquired both solidarity with the drivers and the devotion of his son?a son whose DNA had been programmed to love racing.
Every May, rain or shine, the twosome headed for the Indianapolis 500 Time Trials. These trips heightened Mike?s dream of one day climbing into the cockpit of an Indy 500 car. One Saturday, they left early and returned late. Sheepish looks on their already tanned faces reflected on the frame of a wrecked midget race car they had brought home with them.
?Where?s the engine?? I asked.
?Oh, we?ll have to have that built.? Tom replied nonchalantly. Mike forfeited his senior year of playing high school football to work extra hours. We financed a Chevy truck and trailer and charged parts on our MasterCard. Tom and Mike struggled and sweated, arguing one minute and bosom buddies the next. A Chevy V-6 engine was built and tires bought. We secured two sponsors, joined the Automobile Racing Club of America and went racing.
The sun was brilliant that Sunday in Michigan when Mike buckled into the cockpit of his number 38 midget. He sat tight, high on the track to let the speedier cars pass. Suddenly, a midget clipped his front left tire, catapulting it into a spin. The engine stalled, and the car sat marooned in the middle of the track. Out of the fourth turn, another midget with nowhere to go slammed broadside into the number 38. There was only an instant to glance at Tom?s face, but I witnessed a flash of terror. Tom and I both dashed onto the track to find Mike only shaken-up with minor aches and pains. However, something powerful happened that day: For Tom, it was all over. He knew we couldn?t afford to repair the car, but that concern was secondary. For the first time Tom grasped the cold, hard fact that his son could be seriously injured?or worse, and Tom couldn?t and wouldn?t be responsible for that! That night, the sultry night air in the cab of the truck was saturated with silence. After three years of traveling the highway, enjoying the excitement of the race and listening to the roar of the engines, there was only silence.
On July 25th of the following year, we celebrated Mike?s 25th birthday with our daughter, son-in-law and two grandchildren. Little did we know that this celebration as a family would be our last. The next evening Tom suffered a massive coronary, and three days later died at the age of forty-nine without gaining consciousness. His personal race had ended; he had taken the checkered flag. Our family had been slammed into broadside. We were marooned in the middle of a state of shock. What would we do with our lives without him?
Mike still lived at home, giving the two of us an opportunity to experience our grief as one. I didn?t realize it at the time, but Mike?s grief as a son was different from my grief as a widow, and since grief was new to both of us, we handled it as best we could. We sat side by side, arms wrapped around each other, sobbing while desperately trying to ease each other?s pain. My heart ached for my son. He had lost his friend, crew chief and father, not to mention his dream. The dream that had been programmed by his DNA now evaporated, much like fuel, into a vapor.
Eight months later, Mike broke his wrist and I had pneumonia. I considered not swallowing the prescription drugs. Then, he popped in the door, and I knew I had to take them. Devoted, he waited on me. Committed to cheering me up, he drove me to chuckles and then into catnaps.
One evening, Mike asked me if I ever saw rainbows in the morning sky. No, I had never seen a rainbow in the morning sky, but I did know that rainbows were a covenant sign from God. Every morning we left for work at the same time. Every morning my eyes scanned the sky for a rainbow, so eager to feel God?s compassion. Every night Mike asked if I had seen the rainbow, but I told him that the rainbows were God?s gift to him.
On Mike?s twenty-sixth birthday (one year after his father?s death), I traveled home in a blinding thunder storm. I was in my bedroom when Mike shouted, ?Mom, come quick!? When I hastened to his side, in the eastern sky I saw the most magnificent rainbow I had ever seen. Full, vibrant colors erupted from the surface of the earth in the north and sank below the surface of the earth in the south. Wiping away tears, Mike said in a hushed tone, ?That?s my birthday present from my dad.?
Mike has remained an avid race fan. While driving to the track or from the ?bleachers, he always sees a rainbow that fills him with peace and hope.
This past summer, I joined Mike and his five-year-old son, Lukie for a trip to Winchester Speedway. From high on the bleachers, Mike gestured toward the western sky and said. ?Mom, see the rainbow??
Yes, I did see the rainbow! I glanced at Mike and my grandson, and wondered if Lukie would enter the pits when he matured. Had his DNA been programmed to follow his grandfather and his dad in the love of racing? Then, in the distance over the corn fields, my mind heard the words of the legendary Tony Hulman, ?Gentleman, start your engines!?
If anyone should ask, how I could let my grandson climb into a race car, the answer would be the same. ?How could I not??? For father and son together (but in different ways) had met the Maker of the DNA and the Creator of the rainbow.
By gdmagADMIN 
Source: http://griefdigestmagazine.com/2011/06/a-dream-and-a-rainbow/
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