Member-only story
A Prayer from the Back of the Racquetball Court
No, it wasn’t about my serve
When I was in college — a few years (or, well, decades) ago, I regularly played racquetball with my roommate.
The school’s fitness center included eight courts. By leaving your university ID at the desk, you could rent racquets and a ball and reserve a court for an hour. You could extend this indefinitely if no one else was waiting.
I liked the intensity of the game. And enjoyed the competitive time with another guy. It was a welcome relief from school and the debate team and student government.
I’m pretty sure, though, that in all the four years I spent playing racquetball at night with a friend, I never once prayed on the court.
No, that wouldn’t happen until I was nearly 50.
Almost two years ago, I walked into a church for the first time in a long time. Attending a church service was suggested as a part of my recovery journey. While I wasn’t excited about the idea, I thought it couldn’t hurt. The church is less than a mile from my house, and I was promised the service would last less than an hour.
I went — and left my phone in my car.
A time of quiet reflection and familiar songs.