Today involved a flashback of sorts. With the temperature unusually warm, I went out to the basketball court near our son Ben's place (in Herndon, VA) and, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, shot baskets for about ninety minutes.
It took me back 45 years, to the slab of concrete behind our house on Steffin Hill Extension. High wooded hills formed the backdrop as I dribbled, shot, rebounded, dribbled, shot, and rebounded, until a sister (or my mother) called me for supper. Sometimes I was with friends but usually I was alone, perfecting a peculiar two-handed set shot that was mine alone.
Later, in high school, I learned to shoot with one hand, and then, in college, a kid in the street demonstrated for me a fadeaway jump shot, and I worked on that little move over and over and over as well.
What was the fascination? Well, I would say there was a certain sense of relaxation, of zen, that would come over me in those days when I'd get a streak going--say five, or ten, or more, in a row. When I'd actually be able to pull off that sort of consistency when playing an actual game against some pretty good players, well, that indeed was satisfying, and a sense of accomplishment. At those times I was able to tell my body to do something, and it would respond and do it, and I would know a satsfaction which, I suppose, is not unlike the satisfaction we all get in performing a thousand other actions with skill. We cook a meal, we write a sentence, we play a round of golf, we fix a computer, or (using tact and wisdom) we solve a "people" problem at work or home. These skills, these activities, are, all of them, gifts from God which we can either use for His glory or for our own.
Years back, naturally (and how much of this was due to adolescence and how much to sin, I'm not sure) everything was about me. I shot, I scored, and half the enjoyment came from imagining doing the same thing in front of a fieldhouse full of fans.
Now, of course, such fantasies don't come often (and to what extent that is due to age and to what extent it is due to growth in grace, it is impossible to say) and yet...I can honestly say there can be a kind of enjoyment in the act of dribbling, of shooting, and of rebounding now that is better than it was then. As I play now (on such rare occasions as today) I can find myself caught up with the wonder of still being able to get my body to do much of anything that I ask it to. And the fact that I was still at it--still moving around, even still doing the odd (rather modified) fadeway jump shot--ninety minutes after I started, that too filled me with mild wonder. "I am not utterly winded. This means that those mundane exercises I've been doing in front of the TV actually have accomplished something."
And then there was the point during the activity when my body at last was all warmed and certain synapses in my brain were firing, or something, and I found myself sinking one basket, and another, and another, and another--and another--before missing. ("What thing, passing strange, is this that thine old body still hath wrought...???").
And all mellow, and starting, no doubt, to benefit from the activation of certain chemicals in the brain, I found myself starting to think more calmly about this problem and then that, and finally, one by one, to begin praying about them. I slowed the pace, then stopped, and took a seat on a nearby bench. The sun was setting and the air was cooler, but still not so cool that I couldn't sit in a sweater and continue my meditations. Once again, God had reentered my world--or made me aware of His presence in it. I pulled out a pen and a pad and began taking notes on the conversation.
The lesson, I think, is that whereas in times past all activities, skills, pleasures, and accomplishments ultimately pointed to me, that now (at least when I'm listening) they seem to point to God. (At least I hope that is the case or that I can say so without, in some perverse way, circling back and once again pointing to myself and not to God after all.)
It took me back 45 years, to the slab of concrete behind our house on Steffin Hill Extension. High wooded hills formed the backdrop as I dribbled, shot, rebounded, dribbled, shot, and rebounded, until a sister (or my mother) called me for supper. Sometimes I was with friends but usually I was alone, perfecting a peculiar two-handed set shot that was mine alone.
Later, in high school, I learned to shoot with one hand, and then, in college, a kid in the street demonstrated for me a fadeaway jump shot, and I worked on that little move over and over and over as well.
What was the fascination? Well, I would say there was a certain sense of relaxation, of zen, that would come over me in those days when I'd get a streak going--say five, or ten, or more, in a row. When I'd actually be able to pull off that sort of consistency when playing an actual game against some pretty good players, well, that indeed was satisfying, and a sense of accomplishment. At those times I was able to tell my body to do something, and it would respond and do it, and I would know a satsfaction which, I suppose, is not unlike the satisfaction we all get in performing a thousand other actions with skill. We cook a meal, we write a sentence, we play a round of golf, we fix a computer, or (using tact and wisdom) we solve a "people" problem at work or home. These skills, these activities, are, all of them, gifts from God which we can either use for His glory or for our own.
Years back, naturally (and how much of this was due to adolescence and how much to sin, I'm not sure) everything was about me. I shot, I scored, and half the enjoyment came from imagining doing the same thing in front of a fieldhouse full of fans.
Now, of course, such fantasies don't come often (and to what extent that is due to age and to what extent it is due to growth in grace, it is impossible to say) and yet...I can honestly say there can be a kind of enjoyment in the act of dribbling, of shooting, and of rebounding now that is better than it was then. As I play now (on such rare occasions as today) I can find myself caught up with the wonder of still being able to get my body to do much of anything that I ask it to. And the fact that I was still at it--still moving around, even still doing the odd (rather modified) fadeway jump shot--ninety minutes after I started, that too filled me with mild wonder. "I am not utterly winded. This means that those mundane exercises I've been doing in front of the TV actually have accomplished something."
And then there was the point during the activity when my body at last was all warmed and certain synapses in my brain were firing, or something, and I found myself sinking one basket, and another, and another, and another--and another--before missing. ("What thing, passing strange, is this that thine old body still hath wrought...???").
And all mellow, and starting, no doubt, to benefit from the activation of certain chemicals in the brain, I found myself starting to think more calmly about this problem and then that, and finally, one by one, to begin praying about them. I slowed the pace, then stopped, and took a seat on a nearby bench. The sun was setting and the air was cooler, but still not so cool that I couldn't sit in a sweater and continue my meditations. Once again, God had reentered my world--or made me aware of His presence in it. I pulled out a pen and a pad and began taking notes on the conversation.
The lesson, I think, is that whereas in times past all activities, skills, pleasures, and accomplishments ultimately pointed to me, that now (at least when I'm listening) they seem to point to God. (At least I hope that is the case or that I can say so without, in some perverse way, circling back and once again pointing to myself and not to God after all.)
posted by Ted | 5:39 PM
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