Dropping the Ball

                                                          

      In the hot summer days of my childhood, I heard the steady rhythm of the basketball pounding the cement of our driveway. The clang of vibrating metal rang from the backboard as a shot was attempted. Often I could hear a cheer from one of my older brothers, or my father’s laughter. His deep voice constantly instructing, refereeing, and cheering. With ease the boys dribbled the ball between their legs or passed it behind their backs.  The heat made the sweat pour down their youthful bodies as they scrimmaged.

     

     Sometimes angry words came cutting through the foamy curtains and open screen of my bedroom. Unlike the boys, I sat inside on my strawberry shag carpet with “Ken” in my left hand and “Peaches n’ Cream” Barbie in my right. To me, basketball seemed simple enough. If someone asked the eight year old girl what I thought about the sport, I would have said.  

“Just don’t drop the ball, Just make a basket.”

     In fifth grade I went out for optimist basketball. We met on Saturday mornings at a local gym. I can’t remember where. I can remember the white walls and polished hardwood floors. Unlike my brother’s natural athletic ability, I sat on the bench in the maroon jersey and boyish athletic shorts with goosebumps running down my skinny legs and bare arms.

     

     Somehow this simple game of basketball I had watched my brothers play repeatedly became complex. The ball felt too big in my shaky hands. I couldn’t even attempt the fancy moves I saw my brothers perform.

“Just hold onto the ball and make a basket,” I whispered to myself.

     There are rules to the game, I soon learned. Moving while holding the ball is a violation called “traveling.” To hear the swoosh of the net and cheers of crowd, you must first make it through all of the obstacles. Flailing arms, bodies blocking, plunging, trying to steal the ball, all posed challenges.

On the court, finally I caught the ball. Trying to concentrate, my heart beating loudly in my ears. Dribble…Dribble…Dribble….

“Don’t drop the ball, you can do this Dianne.”

     The same voice that coached my brothers day after day, called out. My father’s eyes watched intensely from the stands. In that moment, I went for it.  Awkwardly I rolled the ball up my chest and threw it toward the backboard with all my might. Bling, it bounced off, hitting the rim.   

My head hung down as I walked out of the gym that day. I had let him down, I had dropped the ball. Much to my surprise, my Dad’s face was beaming as he hugged me saying, “Good try, don’t be discouraged, give it another shot!”

     

     In the fast paced life of adulthood, in a world where dropping the ball can cost us dearly, I hear my own whispered voice saying, “Just don’t drop the ball again, make a basket for once!”

     My opinion of my abilities can be negative and guilt ridden. Not only have I proved to be a poor basketball player, but I continue to drop the ball of opportunity. Is it possible with all my shortcomings, that God the Father could  come down off the stands, face beaming to say, “Good Try, don’t be discouraged, give it another shot.”

    

     It has taken me a long time to understand why my dad responded to my failure with a huge smile on his face. He could have scolded me for not following his instruction, but his response came from not only his love of the game, but more importantly his love for me. No matter how clumsily I played, he was proud of me, and wanted to share his passion with me.

     

     I believe that when we keep going, trying, and believing, we bring delight to our Father God who is more in love with who we are than the way we play the game. There is not a single person on this earth that does not at some point drop the ball. But when we turn to God and accept His love we have the strength to pick up the ball and try again.