GLORY DAYS
I tried to scootch back a little to avoid the grunting struggle making its way toward me, but my hands were glued behind my back and the skin of my knees kept sticking to the gym floor.
“P! I! N! Get a pin! Get a pin! Get a pin!!” I robotically clapped, cheering on my junior high wrestling team.
The grapplers were trying their best to ignore me. Not one single spectator watched me in admiration. A whistle blew and the gym quickly emptied for a popcorn break.
I managed an awkward “B” team cheerleader salute and resumed my kneeling stance at the edge of the mat.
Clearly, this was not what I had signed up for.
When I had proudly accepted the honor to bear my school’s name, I envisioned standing before a bleacher full of fans, illuminated under the field lights on a crisp fall night - pom pons raised in anticipation, two seconds on the clock, and a perfect spiral in the air.
And yet, here I sat in the putrid humidity of a much lesser role, helplessly watching a struggle with nothing more to offer than a half-hearted cheer that barely made it to the ceiling.
Here I sat, reduced to waiting and watching on my knees.
Some things never change.
Even now, I often find myself in the confusing arena of faith with shrill whistles, tense stances and spectators cussing the ref out under their breath. When I look for my own glory, I contribute nothing to the scene.
Yet filled with God’s Spirit, I remember Who’s name I bear and suddenly the glory of God permeates every pore of the mat I find myself on.