Born Again

            “No! No! No! Over here Robertson!” Coach Rhendish grabbed my basketball jersey and yanked me across the court. He was teaching us a new play and doing a lousy job of it. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose. An angry red vein pulsed on his forehead.  
            “Run it again!” He barked, flinging the ball at me. I passed the ball to the center and moved to my right. Coach yanked me back on my heels and glared.  
            “I said to the guard, then rotate left, then, if the defender…”
I have replayed what happened next many times. There are so many great things I could have said. But I didn’t stop to think. I erupted with the first words that came to mind. 
            “I don’t know what’s going on!”
“You don’t know what’s going on?!” He exploded. “Then SIT DOWN!” He dragged me across the court and slammed me down on the bench which is where I spent the remainder of my sophomore year on the basketball team. 
            In our family, sports were how you proved you were a man. In the summers I went to Spokane to attend basketball camp with my cousins. My uncle Dave led the camp. He and his kids went on to glory. Dave won a state championship. One cousin got a college basketball scholarship. Another became an ESPN sportscaster. Me? I sat on the bench. 
            I went home, shut the door, and plopped down in a bean bag chair to stare at the wall. I squeezed a pimple between my thumb and forefinger, resisting the urge to make a bloody mess of it. I thought about the girl I had been trying to impress from the moment I saw her back in junior high. For a few glorious weeks, she had taken an interest in me but when adolescence hit, she blossomed. I metastasized. When I passed her in the hall there was a chasm between us. I smiled and waved and tried not to fall in.
            I was so desperate I reached for the Bible my parents had given me for my 13th birthday and opened it in my lap. It landed on a Psalm.

O LORD, how long will you forget me? Forever?
How long will you look the other way?
How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul,
with sorrow in my heart every day?
But I trust in your unfailing love.
I will rejoice because you have rescued me.
I will sing to the LORD
because he is good to me.

            The words were electric, as if God was speaking directly to me. It was as real as the arms of my own mother. Jesus was alive! I leapt to my feet and ran around the room, pumping my fists in the air. To the cruelty of High School rejection I now had a triumphant reply: Jesus loves me. 
            The next morning I got up early and opened my Bible to try to make the connection again. I pulled Vaughan Williams, Symphony #5 from a record sleeve and put it on the turntable. I loved the sound of the French horn. It was like it came from the same mysterious place where the Voice originated.
            It didn’t bother me that the Bible was confusing. I would have been disappointed if it hadn’t been. The subject, after all, was God. I admired Pastor Ashley, my childhood pastor. He studied the Bible in ancient Greek and had it figured out. At his suggestion, I bought a King James Study Bible and went to work.
            Our family lived in the country. While my friends in town gathered to play sports and chase girls, I was home alone. I didn’t mind. I had the company I wanted. I got off the bus, grabbed my shotgun, and traipsed through the wheat fields with my dog, Brute, looking for pheasants, feeling the glory of God in every step. At night, I went for walks under the stars, shivering at the cold and yipping of coyotes. 

  In the summers, dad took me backpacking. We explored nearly every lake in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, whether or not there were trails.  

  It would be hard to script a better childhood. I was up to my neck in glory. There was no doubt in my mind: I had met God and was on the right path.