Jellybeans and other things

I ran into the woman who coached my basketball team, the Jellybeans, when I was a kid in 1971. I can’t wrap my mind around the decades that have passed.

Few people know that I have this secret past as a basketball playing, pony-tail shaking, trouble-making bookworm.

Well. Maybe you might believe the last part of that. The basketball, though, often comes as a surprise. I’m okay with people looking at my middle-aged “comfortable” body and squinting to see if there ever could have been a lithe athlete in there.

She’s still there, moving slower, and less gracefully, but in some way…full of grace.

It has less to do with the muscle memory that leads to flawless lay-ups, and more about the muscle memory of the heart.

I learned many lessons while playing sports. Research shows that girls and young women who play sports tend to have better self-esteem, better body image, and better mental health over all. They tend to delay sex longer and are better students.

Those physical lessons that led to championship seasons and excellence on the court were secondary to the moral lessons that influenced my character and directly affected the kind of girl I was, and the woman that I have become.

For every suicide that I ran, building stamina and speed, I learned that suffering and pain can sometimes be fleeting and often leads to strength.

For every monotonous dribbling or shooting drill that improved my skill, I learned about patience and commitment, and the rewards of hard work.

For every play that was repeated over and over until we operated in unison, I learned the value of working together and perhaps more importantly, that everyone on a team has unique skills. I learned to ask for help when in a pickle, and to selflessly jump into the fray to help when I can.

The coaches who taught me those important lessons were in my life for a season (ha, how do you like that unintended wordplay?) but their influence has been timeless.

I’ve passed along those same lessons to athletes I’ve coached, students I’ve taught, and adults I’ve advised. I’v passed those lessons along to my children.

I live those lessons, I hope, with humility but determination. To be my best. To do my best. To be a good sport. To enjoy the game. To laugh, and joke, and celebrate. To lose gracefully, and perhaps, too often forgotten, to win gracefully.

To remember to drink water.

And finally, to begin every endeavor, whether large or small, in prayer.

Our Lady of Victory, pray for us.

the darndest things chase me down and beat me over the head

I came across this quotation from Flannery O’Connor. Look, I fail to attribute it correctly because I was gonna get around to doing something with this in a lesson, and the scrap ended up hijacked by the blotter, and you know, out of sight out of mind. I’m sure I used something appropriate in its place.

“Don’t expect faith to clear things up for you.

It is trust — not certainty.”

Nice, isn’t it? At the time I wrote it down I must have had some thoughts about trust:  no doubt, trusting in God’s plan (the rest of the quote is talking about faith, after all). Whatever, it was clearly not terribly meaningful at the time beyond the obvious clear message that faith is an act of will, right?

It is, isn’t it? An act — an action! — of the will.To choose to believe, to choose to trust is a hard thing to do.

I like my control issues. They make me comfortable. I like to know that if I do x thing, I will get y. There’s a comfort in that kind of control because I feel that I can influence any outcome based on me and my whims and desires.

Oh my. Kinda messes with the priorities. A little selfish, Maria? Hmmm?

It’s more than that, though. It’s more than feeling I know best for myself, it’s also, and this is the startling part, putting a very particular kind of yoke around my neck. If I do not let go of this control and open myself to the possibilities that God has in store for me, then boy, I’m a loser.

I am choosing the ham sandwich that I can see behind Door #1 because I happen to like ham sandwiches, and don’t dare to believe that behind Door #2 could be filet mignon, or that behind Door #3 is something so wildly beyond my teeny and uncreative imagination that I can’t even imagine it.

I am choosing what I know and what I am comfortable with because I do not trust that there could be something better for me behind Door #2 or Door #3. That is a very sad statement indeed. I do not trust. I do not trust.

That realization hit pretty hard, I’m not going to lie. And I’m going to say, before I sound too pathetic, that it isn’t necessarily a constant state, but something that I must continually work on when it sneaks up on me.

The challenge is in believing that I am worthy of whatever is behind Door #3. I want it. I really do. And I believe that whatever is behind that door is especially for me. I just need to walk myself on over to it and open it.

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