I know, I know - the
title of this entry is quite confusing.
How could these three very different things ever intertwine? In whose bizarre world do they have anything
in common? Well, the answer, simply put,
is mine.
You see, the summer of 1998 was an epic one for me: it was the second season of the WNBA, and my
favorite team, the Houston Comets, were the reigning champs. I was going into the seventh grade, and there
was nothing more exciting to me than basketball. I had played year round for several years and
could not wait to officially play for my middle school. (Shout out to the Dowell Middle School Lionettes!) I’m not sure what drew me to such an intense
and aggressive sport, but I loved it.
And, so when the WNBA came into existence, and my favorite team kept
winning, my dreams of playing expanded to that level. Yes, I am dead serious.
My room wasn’t covered with posters of J.T.T. or Devon Sawa,
but of the logos and slogans from the WNBA, such as, “We got next.” Sheryl Swoopes, Lisa Leslie, Rebecca Lobo –
these were my heroes and the names on the jerseys I owned. I keep it for laughs now, but I definitely
still own a shirt that reads, “A Woman’s Place is in the Paint!” I even vividly remember a poster that hung in
my room with a woman’s hand gripping a basketball. The words at the bottom stated, “This is the
hand that rocks the cradle; this is the hand that cradles the rock.” I obviously wasn’t rocking any cradles in the
seventh grade, but the propaganda sent me on my own “I am woman hear me roar”
journey, and I could not get enough. (And, if you aren’t familiar with the sport’s
slang, “the rock” is another term for “basketball”.)
Oh. My. Gosh. Gah
- how cheesy!!?? I can’t get over it. The depth of my “jock-ness” was
unprecedented, and is somewhat embarrassing now. When I see a picture of my usual garb in
seventh grade, I shudder. A Houston
Comets jersey, white t-shirt (on top of two sports-bras, I guarantee you), long
mesh shorts, tall slouch socks, and Nike high tops. My awkwardly frizzy, thick hair pulled back
into a tight ponytail and not a stick of make-up. God bless my sweet mother for allowing me to
leave the house without a shred of femininity in tow. Granted, the seventh grade doesn’t do favors for
anyone, but I was clearly enjoying this phase.
See below photos for evidence.
 |
| Just swinging in my favorite Sheryl Swoopes jersey. (Do I have any hair?) |
 |
| My sweet parents even took me to Houston to see a game live. (I still have the ticket in my scrapbook.) |
So, you can imagine, when I tore my left ACL in the spring
of seventh grade, I was devastated. Were
all my dreams of the WNBA going down the drain?
I spent the semester in and out of the orthopedic surgeon’s office. Words such as meniscus, graft, growth plates,
and rehab were tossed around like a hacky sack.
While ACL surgery and recovery is a textbook procedure, I was a mere
thirteen years old, which throws a kink into the “cookie cutter” aspect of it. They couldn’t perform the surgery until my
growth plates were closed enough, or else my right leg would continue to grow,
and my left would not. I would grow
lop-sided if they operated too soon.
Umm, no thanks.
And, so, the great wait began. Life bustled around me. Spring basketball started, and I rode the
bench, still no surgery in view. WNBA jerseys
and Nike shorts still owned my wardrobe, but basketball wasn’t an option during
this season. I plastered on a smile,
supported my best friends from the sideline, and waited to stop growing. What a strange thing to wait for, if you
think about it. I mean, what kind of
timeline can you even use? There isn’t
one, which is exactly what had me discouraged.
However, amongst this season of angst, MRIs, knee braces,
and zero basketball, my mother (i.e. our family’s intercessor) clung to this
verse on my behalf:
Even youth grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and
fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they
will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. –Isaiah 40:30-31
If I heard that verse once, I heard it a thousand times over
this season of my life. I clung to
it. I loved how specific it was for me
during that time. I literally could not
run without being in pain, so I held it as a promise. Just wait on the Lord, my mom would say…
Wait. Wait. Wait.
What a hard thing for a thirteen year old to practice. However, that summer, my growth plates would finally
close enough to operate, I would heal and rehab in the standard six month time
frame, and would return to my hoops career by the start of the eighth grade
season. Phew.
Now, let’s fast forward fifteen years. My WNBA dreams are an inside joke between my
closest friends and family. (Seriously,
I think I have a greater chance of becoming an astronaut than a professional
basketball player, which is saying a lot because I have a Communications
degree. I literally asked which degree
plan would require the least amount of science.) And, though, my hands may be “rocking a
cradle” these days, I haven’t laced up a pair of high-tops in a decade. What hasn’t changed, though, is Isaiah
40:30-31.
You see, my daughter, Molly, fell a few weeks ago, and we have been
on a roller coaster ever since. We never
received a diagnosis, so we waited. She didn’t walk for seventeen (long, sad,
frustrating, and heartbreaking) days.
But that seventeenth day was glorious.
She stood up, took a few steps then quickly returned to the crawling
position. She repeated this several
times with a facial expression full of excitement and timidity. I couldn’t get enough of it – my iPhone photo
gallery is proof.
So, now we are on the uphill portion of this journey with
her. Now, we know she is on the road to
full physical recovery. However, she’s
not walking as well as she did before the fall.
It’s like we are watching her learn to walk all over again. I thought she would just stand up one day and
that would be that. She’d be walking,
running, jumping, dancing, and spinning all again in the same day. She was doing it all before the fall, so I
thought her memory would just bypass all the stutter steps this time. Well, I was wrong. And like I had to learn in the seventh grade,
while my growth plates closed, I have to wait on the Lord for this one,
too. Enter the verses from Isaiah.
He knew when my growth plates would close, and he knows when
Molly’s leg will be fully healed. He
knows the intricacy of her tendons, muscles, and bones better than any X-ray or
doctor. He crafted them together in my
womb and is closely watching her as she takes her second set of first
steps. He knows when she will be ready,
and I know that is when she will walk perfectly. For the second time.
This morning I watched her stand, take a few steps, crawl, stand,
take two steps and fall on her booty over and over. I’m filming and taking pictures all over
again. I don’t know when it will happen,
but I want to be ready. I want to be
ready for that time when she finally takes the three steps that leads to three
more steps, which leads to her walking across the living room and never looking
back.
These may look like random, boring pictures of her standing... but to me, they're shots of hope, healing, and the promise of a few more steps.
In the meantime, though, I will wait on the Lord. I put my hope in Him because I’ve needed
renewed strength each day. (Literally,
my arms are sore and ache from carrying her around so much.) I know that her fall makes her feel tired and
weary. I watch her stumble and fall
after just a few steps, but any day now she will run and walk again without
growing faint. In case she forgets or
becomes fussy in the process, all I can do is what my mother did for me: speak this verse to her over and over.
And, maybe tomorrow I’ll even throw on the ol’ WNBA t-shirt
just to remind myself that the waiting is a part of His plan, too.
From: Paige
No comments:
Post a Comment