March 2009 – Made for Eternity

Today was not a good day. This morning, I was barely 4 hours into the work week and I was already feeling beaten down, idiotic, and incompetent. This feeling is to be expected occasionally when you’re in your first year of a profession, so I wasn’t surprised. Still, I definitely needed encouragement.

During lunch, I grabbed my Bible from my desk drawer and turned to my favorite book whenever I’m in a brokedown place – the Psalms. I opened up right where I needed to be:

Psalm 56:8-9 “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book? Then my enemies will turn back in the day when I call. This I know, that God is for me.”

Now, my circumstances are nowhere near as dire as David’s when he wrote these words, but that beautiful truth is just as true. I love knowing that whoever is against me, my GOD is for me.

Today I was talking to one of my friends about field hockey. We got on the topic whilst discussing tennis, in which skirts are worn and I mentioned that there is another sport where women wear skirts. Sadly, my friend had never heard of field hockey despite coming from Minnesota, which is like the capital of ice hockey in America or something. Of course, green sports fields not located in domes are hard to come by in the Great White North, so I guess I can’t really blame her ignorance.

That said, hockey was beyond a doubt my favorite sport in high school. I discovered it in 10th grade during P.E. class and became somewhat obsessed. For the unintiated among us, field hockey is played on a soccer-like field with a round ball (which weights a bit more than a baseball) and wooden sticks that are flat on one side and rounded on the other. You can only use the flat side for contact with the ball. The object is to get the ball into the goal which is a good deal smaller than a soccer goal – maybe half the size. Pretty straight-forward, no?

I never made the actual school team, but had a great time playing intramural hockey on the dusty field as well as the grittier version we played in the gym on Sunday nights. During those games, the ball skittered at high speeds across the floor and few people wore shin or mouth guards. The boys played too, which always added an element of danger. I well remember the sharp clack of the sticks hitting one another and the blister-inducing rub of the taped-up wood in my hand. I also still have the tender area on the bone just above my ankle where someone swung hard, missing the ball but making excellent contact with my shin.

Ah, hockey. I miss it.