June,
2015
Dear Family
and Friends:
It has been
raining off and on here for the past two weeks.
Today’s sogginess forced me to walk indoors on the track at our local
YMCA. Not just me. The entire “Y” day camp population was there
playing games, shooting hoops, even eating lunch on the four basketball courts. Cute kids all over the place and a lovely din
and racket. I was reminded of blessing
number seven in the Sheva Berachot recited during Jewish wedding
ceremonies. It equates the joy of bride
and groom and the shouts of young people celebrating with the songs of children
at play in the streets of Jerusalem. That
beautiful image resonates with me whenever I hit that spot in the ceremony
under the Chupah. Well, we certainly
heard the songs of children at play on the courts of Bloomington this
morning. It was music to my ears.
On one of my
loops around the courts a little fellow, maybe five years old, sitting near the
track, looked up at me as I went by, pointed his finger at me and shot his
imaginary finger gun. He also made the
universal noise all imaginary guns make, “P’shu, p’shu.” I, being the responsible adult that I am
pointed back, cocked my thumb and returned fire (along with the required sound
effect). On my next loop he was waiting
in ambush. Kneeling next to the curtain
that divides the courts he fired when ready as I walked on by. I was indeed caught by surprise and my
imaginary return fire missed by a mile.
For a minute
I thought, “Maybe, in this day and age, with so much real shooting going on in
our world, I shouldn’t be playing such a game.”
It’s not very PC, right? But, the heck with that, I decided to be ready
for him as I rounded the turn on my next loop.
I would quick draw and shoot from a crouch just like Doc Holliday at the
OK Corral. But the kid surprised me
again. As I approached the court he was
nowhere to be seen. There were no shots,
no sound effects.
I glanced around and saw the little
bandit. No longer interested in our
showdown, he had joined another little outlaw and both were trying to figure
out how to twirl hula hoops and keep them from falling to the floor. They just
couldn’t hula them fast enough. At first I was a bit disappointed, having lost
my rival to another. But then I couldn’t
help but smile and think, what if all the shooters traded their guns for hula
hoops? What if our imaginary shoot sound
effects were erased by the giggles of hula hoopers trying to keep their hoops
up over their hips? What a silly
thought.
What a wonderful thought.
The sun
finally poked through as I walked out to the car. I’m sure my little adversary had not even the
slightest memory of our YMCA duel this morning.
It was just a couple of imaginary shots at an old dude walking the track
in his beat up Cubs cap. Nothing important to
remember there. But for me, imagining
the world doing the hula rather than killing each other on the streets of our
cities or in its churches…well, that was a taste of the Messianic era we
sometimes talk about. Sweet.
Aloha,
Ron
