“Praise the LORD, O my soul.
Praise the LORD.”
Psalm 104:35
The truth is, I’d love to play
slo-pitch. A good friend, even older
than I am, decided the college faculty should have an intramural softball team, "the Geezers." He organized it and now has
them out on the field. Problem is, they got thumped in their first game, so he
sent out an e-mail lookin’ for beefier hitters. Singles just don’t make it in
slo-pitch.
Once upon a time, I slammed homers
methodically, routinely—every other at bat almost. Not a lie either. So the siren call of playing slo-pitch got
even sweeter when the Geezers took it on the chin from a bunch of squirt students
who pounded home runs like pop flies.
Two reasons make my playing ball
impossible. The first is, I can’t because I’m scheduled—a book club. The second
is vastly more salient: I’m old. I don’t like to think about what might happen
to this body of mine should I throw hard, swing hard, or even run—or try to--for
that matter. This mortal coil has done nothing close to any of the above for
more than a decade. Who knows what horrors I would suffer?
No matter—if I wouldn’t be at the
book club, I’d be at the ball diamond. I
would. I swear. At least, I think I would.
A friend of mine remembers the day
his father, 70+, looked at him sardonically when this friend complained of some
minor muscle ache. “Get used to it,” he said, with far more authority than
sympathy.
Most mornings when I wake, I walk
downstairs slowly, the railing in my left hand, my right braced up against the
wall, my back crooked, knees bent. My silhouette against the dim kitchen lights
must resemble Notre Dame’s most famous hunchback. And it ain’t getting
better.
I wash small loads of wash lately because
once a week at least a perfectly good shirt, a perfectly clean shirt, jumps off
my chest to catch milk from the cereal bowl or syrup from pancakes. I get so
angry, I wash them right away to destroy evidence.
But this friend of mine—the man who was warned by his
father to get used to his aches and pains—right now is dying of lung cancer. He
says in a note that his aches are different because now, he says, “I
will never again be able to draw a full two-lungs'-worth of breath. I will ever
puff at a flight of stairs. This body will nevermore be what it has been, nor
can I frame my knowing it according to its ability to repair itself.”
And,
he says, he’ll never get better. He’s busy “devising methods for living
the diminishing life.”
And he still says, “Praise the Lord.”
He still says, “Hallelujah.” Just
doesn’t have as much lung to profer that praise.
I like to think I could hit a ball out of the park, but I’m a
whole lot safer at a book club—I know that.
I just hope that, like my friend with diminishing lungs, when
my time comes I can call upon an ever youthful faith, and say with the
psalmist, at the very end of this museum-piece psalm, Psalm 104, “Hallelujah,
Praise the Lord.”
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