Posts Tagged ‘volleyball’

Gym Date

Sometimes, more often than it happens, we  just need to get away.


Like to a gym with nets.

Without the little people.

So we can smack a volleyball around…

and reminisce about having body parts that ran faster, hit harder,  jumped higher or heavens, jumped at all.


And we can high-five people our own age.  And gimp to the restroom alone.  We can eat a whole banana without sharing and expect to find the dried cherries still in the trailmix. 

We can play. 

Thank you, Jesus…we can play.

Then when the day be done, we can smile…

because, by golly, we’re still standing.

And ‘standing’, at this moment, counts for something.


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I was in the tenth grade when the word “side-out” still meant something in volleyball and when our uniforms all had long sleeves and were tucked into the equivalent of a woman’s swimsuit bottom.  Maybe you’ve seen pictures.  Or *shudder* maybe you wore them, too.  We called them bun huggers.  And why they ever entered the sporting world, I won’t even bother to ponder.

Only as a sophomore wavering between the junior varsity and the varsity, I had two pairs.  One for each uniform.  Which was more than I could keep track of on the weekend of our jamboree in Spokane. 

Now, if you live in Wenatchee like I did, then you know a trip to Spokane in a car pressing the accelerator takes three hours.  A bit longer on a bus.

Which is why when my dad showed up in Spokane on that Saturday morning in the wake of the bus carrying a small brown lunch sack without a lunch in it, and said, “your mother found these in the wash machine and knew you’d need them,” I nearly fainted.  I was barely on the varsity.  Barely worthy of wearing what was in that sack.  And barely able to understand my dad’s six-hour gesture to hand off a pair of purple bun huggers, so I could play.  In uniform.  

But I’ve realized that there are more things than that Spokane bun hugger trip that I may never understand.  Uh…like my parents leaving their house in Wenatchee at 2:15 this afternoon, driving for three hours… to see us for two hours… and then driving home for another three.  The math alone on that is terrifying. 

Only those two hours, like my dad’s two minutes, weren’t a waste of their time.  It’s simply how they live.  It’s how they show their love. 

And when they’ve got love to pour out…

Ain’t no trip too far.

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