The last stand

Last night it all came to an end on a cold, wet football field in something called Breaux Bridge, out in the sugar cane fields, out with a Cajun announcer making me laugh ("there ain't no fat ladies in Breaux Bridge," he kept calling out late in the game.).

I have no idea why I can't shut my mind off, but I can't. I remember Friday nights with no deadlines missed for years. I remember the 92 Olympic Trials where for the first time I felt things were over my head.

I remember the 97 Super Bowl where things weren't over my head but I wasn't allowed to do what I used to do, pretty well. I remember.

And on a pocked field that had seen one too many pairs of cleats, I watched a game, like so many other games and I write a story, like so many other stories, on deadline and without much real thought (so you all know), for the last time. I guess that's where the thoughts are, and where they'll be for a while.

The bible tells me this: He is a shield for all who take refuge in him. For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God. it is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. he makes my deer like the feet of a deer; he enables me to stand on the heights.

As the clock ticked down, I took one last look into the stands, starting briefly at a bunch of Cajuns I would never see again and even taking a quick glance at the Salmen side. When the final horn sounded, one team celebrating like tomorrow will never come and another crying tears of absolute gut-wrenching certainly they didn't want tomorrow to ever come for it would remind them of this night when they left everything on that old field except victory, I was reminded that nothing I've ever done mattered.

Salmen will play next week, just as if I was there. Writers will cover the games, as if I was there. Radio will do the same. People will graduate, go on to lives and so be it all.

But I will remember this: As I made my way to the car, with the light rain now wetting even my Saints leather coat, the Salmen quarterback, a tall young man named Matt Lipham, came running by. He stopped, came back and patted me on the shoulder. He said, "Good luck with the ministry." And suddenly everything I've ever done, everything I've ever written, all the things I will do and say and write in the future came down to one little sentence, or essentially two words.

The ministry.

We are all called to do ministry, even on wet fields of little glory, on Friday nights when the lights are still on, long past the time when we could put on pads and legally hit someone and even be congratulated for it. We are called to do ministry. Why? Because who is God besides the Lord? And who will know if someone doesn't tell them?

And the walk to the car was just a little shorter and a little less wet.