5. status quo
My dad moved our family to a small town in Indiana to build up a church plant when I was in elementary school. A hot shot volleyball player herself back in the day, my mom decided to start her own local club where she would introduce me to the world of athletics. Unlike the “Christian identity”, being an athlete was one I became proud to claim!
The role was comfortable and easy to fit in with. It had a glimmer and shine to it that seemed to offer up opportunities to go places and be somebody. So in search of a person, place, or thing to belong to growing up, I sold out to being a volleyball player.
There’s a grind and an edge of tenacity it takes to be good, to stand out, and I completely soaked it up. After practices- where successfully serving the ball overhand no longer took 112 attempts - came to an end, I embraced early morning work outs, tough practices, and pushing my body to the brink of exhaustion for the sake of getting just a little better, a little stronger, a little tougher.
One of my best friends and I peppered every chance we got…in parks, backyards, parking lots, and there might still be a hole in the garage door I used to practice my spiking on. Even the quirky superstitions like wearing my socks inside out, chewing a wad of Hubba Bubba on game days, and watching Michael Jordan highlight videos on Youtube to '“get in the zone”, became part of the fun.
Going into 8th grade my family and I made another one of our several moves, this time settling in Minnesota to yet again plant another church. Location changed, but my home environment and church involvement remained the same as it always had.
Sunday morning church attendance record…nearly spotless, the familiarity to the events in the Bible never ceased, and I still claimed to be a Christian, while itching to rip off the name tag; uncomfortable with the burden it seemed to bring me and the box it seemed to put me in.
As a family we collected addresses and instead of having a hometown, the realm of volleyball became the home I loved. It was the world where I could feel free for a time. Where my friendships were formed, my goals were set, and my confidence stood.
“I am a volleyball player”…became the narrative I spoke over myself. Wearing a number on my back made me feel sought after and celebrated; like I had something worth offering. A common story, I’m sure.
My passion for the game carried me throughout high school and continued on as I accepted a scholarship to play for a college back in Nebraska. My name had been called, just as I had planned for it to and a bit of friendly nostalgia set in with this decision. I was happy to go back to the spacious miles of open landscape I looked upon with freedom in my heart so many years ago as a kid- the place I had visions of planting my feet into the soil and being grown up and strong enough to handle anything.
I believed it was my time to fulfill that desire.
At one of the last AAU club tournaments senior year of high school, my future assistant coach was among the crowd watching my team. I couldn’t wait to showcase my abilities. I just wanted to get to college, be a four year starter, and relish in the excitement of game days, long standing traditions, road trips, and feeling special.
Being an outside hitter, I had probably taken a hundred approaches just that tournament. I’d been doing the same left right left footsteps since I was ten years old with no problems. The movement had been engrained in my muscle memory, but during a routine point I planted on another player’s foot.
Landing to pivot, my knee twisted like an empty plastic water bottle and I heard a POP, hitting the ground.
Fear immediately filled my body, panicked to be in the spotlight associated to a potential injury. I had never been hurt before. A hundred thoughts swarmed around in my brain…
what if coach takes away my scholarship?
what if my parents are disappointed in me?
what if people think I’m worthless?
Though willing to grit my teeth and continue on, I was taken off the court to asses the damage done.
In the doctor’s office after the tournament came to an end, I wished with everything in me that it would be the one place where I did not have to hear my name called….and I could just go back home as if nothing happened causing me to squirm in the sterile chair required to wait in. My stomach knotted and re-knotted itself. While the minute hand slowly shrieked to the next, I closed my eyes and decided to pray…
God, I haven’t asked much from you lately but today I am asking for good news. Please don’t let me be hurt. Amen
The request was completely self centered, my interest peaking at what I wanted to hear, rather than believing that no matter the outcome, God is good and everything would work out for His glory. I had no idea what it meant to partake in spiritual joy rather than personal happiness, and the time I spent after lifting up my words displayed no faith in the One I sent the prayer up to. As soon as I said Amen, I went right back to my distressed mindset, colluding with my own strategies for how to handle the situation if it didn’t fall my way.
A life based on circumstances shifts and distorts the next safest step to take; and circumstances threatened the equilibrium and status quo I believed absolutely necessary to keep. But I thought, what else is there to base the quality of my life’s course on?
The pedestal of acquiring personal strength and climbing the ranks towards the idol of independence crashed and then some, when upon reaching the point where I felt I could stop and applaud myself…the ladder gave out with a single swift hit. The MRI revealed a torn ACL in my right knee. I would learn that it takes surgery and nearly a year in physical rehab to come back full circle. Just like that, my plans looked completely different and finding ground to plant into seemed to crumble away.
The pungent disappointment added a thick layer to the overarching weariness I already placed on Jesus’s ability to hear me, protect me, or love me. Rather than zooming out to see a bigger picture, my focus zoomed in and adjusted to the view that me, myself, and I alone needed to be better in control of things. My fumbling attempts at the head of the control panel lurched me in jagged circles, as the fear of other people’s expectations traded off taking the reins.
Benched. Waiting. Pending. On Hold.
Useless.
For me, resting, especially when it was not my choice, had not been something I was able to do well. When I feel unable, I feel useless and the fear that God puts people on the bench and keeps them from having any fun amplified as I literally rode the bench for nearly a year.
No matter my fears / doubts, God, rich in mercy, was in hot pursuit, even though I believed that He had abandoned me.
Little did I know how much more He would bring me through to get to the point of surrender, where I could abide in the truth of Zephaniah 3:17 that proclaims “The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.”