My Wife Cried on Easter Sunday

My wife spent part of her evening on Easter Sunday 2004 in tears. I should have seen it coming, because all the ingredients were in place for a show of emotion. She’s a “steady as she goes” type, with a personality complementary and antithetical to my own. The daughter of a minister, Easter weekend always has been meaningful to her on many levels. She maintains a steadfast acceptance of her lifelong Christian learning about the day’s historical and spiritual significance. Our children have outgrown the idea of the Easter Bunny, but she can’t resist grouping fuzzy toys and brightly packaged chocolate together in baskets for them. She likes the azaleas in her yard and wants her family together in the dining room after church. She’s happy on Easter. Sure and steady as she is, this is something we can count on.
2004 was a little different. The weekend went well. The kids were happy and got along with one another. We had planned a low-key day. Relatives who live out of town did not come to visit and the in-town folks had plans of their own. We were content, just the four of us to stay together and enjoy the day. Everything went according to plan. Church was nice. The kids were acolytes and they looked positively angelic dressed all in white. The music was fine that morning, with a brass quartet accompanying the organist and the choir. We sang “alleluia” songs and said good-bye to the somber Lenten liturgy we had endured for more than a month. Lunch was well prepared, and we all enjoyed one another’s company.
It was the Easter we anticipated. Then, along came Phil. Somewhere along the way, while living the life of a sportscaster’s wife, Claire developed a fondness for watching golf on television on Sunday afternoons. As a by-product of this she became, like so many others, a long-suffering Phil Mickelson fan. I have watched her sit, literally on the edge of her seat, imploring Mickelson not to lose his confidence on the final holes of a major tournament. She has suffered through chili-dips and yips. She has grown hopeful watching his free-wheeling style. She’s never played a round of golf but, thanks to Phil, she can make a pretty accurate assessment of a “good lie.”
When David Toms defeated Phil by a stroke at the PGA Championship, she was the textbook definition of ambivalence. She knew Toms was the Shreveport-Bossier guy on the brink of a professional breakthrough. Like the rest of our community, she wanted him to win. But, she absolutely did not want to watch Mickelson suffer yet another agonizing near-miss.
When she learned that Mickelson was tied for the lead going into the final round of the Masters, she said “I don’t want to think about it.” Yet, when the last alleluia was sung and the last dish was put away, she locked in on Lefty at Augusta. For a while, it looked like another Mickelson moment. Ernie Els took the lead away with a lot of skill, a little luck and a couple of successful eagle putts. But Phil stayed steady. As he walked up to the green on the 72nd hole of the Masters while tied for the lead with a chance to win with one putt, my wife pulled the covers up over her eyes like an adolescent girl as a slumber party watching a horror movie. She couldn’t bear to watch and yet she couldn’t turn away. What that putt dropped into the cup, she screamed so loudly that our daughter came running into the room in wide-eyed amazement.
Mickelson grabbed his own little daughter and said, “Daddy won! Can you believe it?” It was over. Mickelson, labeled for so long as the best golfer never to win a major, shed his torment. My wife shed tears. She’s a Phil fan. I guess now I am, too. What makes my wife happy makes me happy. Thanks to Mickelson, she was happy on that Easter. That’s something we can count on.

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