One of my younger sisters, Brittany, played in a volleyball tournament over the weekend. She plays for Spokane Falls Community College. By the community college level, skills are honed and the game is fast paced. Though not necessarily more competitive than high school matches, certainly less painful to watch.
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| "...The moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten. It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance." |
Less painful, but not entirely painless. I’m a volleyball player as well. After playing through three years of college, two knee injuries, a few ankle injuries, and all the drama that comes along with a group of 12 women in close confines for any length of time, I still love the game.
Watching others play is like a cat scratch on a sunburn for me. As a player, watching from the bench can be excruciating. However, watching from the bleachers surrounded by parents is a new torture I’m hoping I don’t have to experience enough to get used to.
On the bench, I’d watch my teammates successes and feel they were mine. I’d watch their failures, and take personal responsibility to resolve them. If my outside hitter is getting blocked, I’d look at what the other team was doing and how my teammate (or myself, should I get subbed in) could hit around them. If the other team’s middle has three kills in a row, I’d look at my defense and plot ways for them to work in unity with my blockers to shut her down.
As a player, the moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten. It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance. When a mistake latches on to a player’s memory, it will begin chipping away at their confidence until they’re too crippled to play. Regardless of physical skill, volleyball is a mental game. The most successful players are those capable remaining focused and present; of forgiving their teammates and themselves instantly, and changing their mind’s desire to dwell on past and future mistakes.
In the bleachers, parents also experience their child’s success and failure. While success is joyous, mistakes feel like embarrassment, shame, and anger. At least, that’s what the shouts and scoffs and growls sound like.
After games, these are some of the most loving, supportive parents on the planet. In the heat of a volley, though, it’s like there are moments where the beautiful women they love cease to be human and become objects to watch and judge.
This might sound over the top, I know. Like I said, I’m not used to sitting in the parents section. In nine years of organized school sports, I had no idea there was such vehemence spewing from the mouths of the people who love and support us.
To be honest, the parent section this weekend was mellow compared to others I’ve sat in. In the past months though, I’ve been learning to discern the spirits people are carrying with them, the spiritual climate of a room, and how to respond. This learning has mostly taken place in my coffee shop. A tiny space, where five customers or so is a crowd. This was a gym with two matches happening at once, bleachers lined with parents. I didn’t realize I had a spiritual comfort zone until I was in this gym.
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| "'It's a tough route... But I really love it.'" |
The tournament lasted two days. The night in-between, I had a dream. I was riding a school bus. Every seat on the bus was occupied, it was noisy and slightly chaotic. I looked around and realized the kids on this bus were physically disabled and deformed. “It’s a tough route,” the bus driver said, eyes watching me from the massive rear-view mirror. “But I really love it.”
A boy across from me was in pain. His arm was curled up at awkward angles, his shoulder and collar bone overlarge and misshapen. I pressed my hand to his forearm and prayed. The pain stopped. The boy was ecstatic. We chatted happily at the back of the bus with the other kids around us for a few minutes. I laid hands on him again, and the boy’s arm began to uncurl. His shoulder began to shrink, and his collarbone to reform. He hugged and kissed me he was so overjoyed. “I’m a married woman!” I laughed, showing him my wedding ring.
Soon thereafter, we arrived at a school filled to bursting with children. All physically deformed, all running and screaming and smiling and waving as the bus pulled up and we got off. I didn’t go into the school, but many kids were outside. I wandered around playing and chatting with them.
One group of kids stood around a tree on the outer fringes of the playground. I walked up and joined their conversation, then asked if anyone wanted healed. A small boy who’d been crouched into a ball nearest the tree responded without hesitation. “I do,” he said. With my hands on his back, I commanded pain to leave. Without further prayer, I asked what he felt. “It’s gone,” he said. Rather surprised he was healed so quickly - he hadn’t even told me the problem - I prodded for a more detailed answer. He remained certain and concise, however. “The pain is gone,” he repeated then stood and the group of friends resumed their storytelling.
For some time, I explored the playground, until I reached an open field. Dozens and dozens of kids huddled in groups dappling the lawn, playing whatever games their physical limitations allowed. The area was loud and bustling, and everyone was smiling. One woman with a whistle around her neck wandered pleasantly, watching for safety concerns or rule-breaking. Her demeanor suggested she didn’t expect either.
Overhead, children were running and screaming with joy. The sight was a pleasure to behold, until I realized they were running along the telephone lines. Suddenly, my pleasure turned to astonishment and then anger. Why was the woman with the whistle not doing anything to stop this? I marched up to her and demanded she look at what was happening above her head. She looked up and smiled pleasantly at me.
Aghast, I watched for some time, searching for any sign that I was seeing a completely safe and school-sanctioned activity taking place. But no, I was truly seeing children running and playing chicken along telephone wires. When I realized that none of these kids were deformed or disabled, that they must all have been healed, my anger and fear diminished for a moment. Until I glanced around the yard and noticed all the kids on the ground watching the telephone wires with glee in their eyes and on their lips.
I began ranting at the woman with the whistle. “Those kids could fall! Or get electrocuted!” I was shouting, now. “Don’t you see? This is dangerous. What if the other kids want to try?”
That’s what’s bothering me, I understood. Not that these healed kids might be in danger, but that these unhealed kids might want to run along phone lines too.
The volume of my rant increased, and I began to address the gawking children on the ground. I explained that no one should be on the phone lines because they didn’t know how to fall. To demonstrate, I thought I’d show them a cartwheel. My first attempt was faltering, “Sorry, I used to do this but really shouldn’t anymore because my knee is injured,” I said. Then I took a running start and went for the cartwheel, to end crashing and sliding and rolling back to my feet. “See? You have to know how to fall.”
I was smiling, thinking I’d surely made a valid and unarguable point. But when I looked around, every person had stopped what they were doing and stared at me with confused disgust. I’d ruined everything, apparently.
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During the second day of the tournament, Dad suddenly interpreted the dream for me. It was a little overwhelming, and I had to leave the parent section. I’ve been trying to put into words what I suddenly understood, but it was a revelation in my spirit and sometimes those are hard to translate. In the next post, I’ll do my best.
Until then, please feel free and encouraged to respond with questions, observations, dream interpretations, prophetic words, etc.
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