During my high school years I was one of the student equipment managers for the track team. There were about six of us each year, sharing the duties. We got the equipment out for each practice, dragged the cinder track each week, scribed it and chalked lines each week. We were also responsible for getting the towels ready for the guys when they came in after practice. Some duties were more enjoyable than others; most were outside, but you had to stay in to fold towels. So we rotated assignments so no one got stuck doing things that were less desirable. That meant even the sophomore managers got their turns popping wheelies in third gear on the tractor we used to drag the track. It also meant that the head manager (me, the last two years) had to stay in to fold towels.
Every morning, a laundry truck would back up to the P.E. loading dock and drop off several bags full of 150-175 big white fluffy towels. Unfolded. These bags were put in a small room next to the shower room. The room was lined with, in the morning, empty shelves. By the time the guys came in after practice, the bags were to be empty and the shelves lined so that when the window between the towel room and shower room opened, everything was ready.
Most of the time we could get all the towels folded in about 45 minutes, and then we’d go outside where it was a little more fun and there was more camaraderie. By my senior year, I’d reached the place where I could get all the towels folded in about 25 minutes. But one spring day, I decided I’d move a little slower. The skies looked like it was about to drizzle as classes ended. I didn’t really want to be out in that any more than necessary. Besides, I had a new copy of Mad magazine I wanted to check out. So I locked the door, folded towels for a few minutes, then settled down on a mostly full bag of towels to read my magazine. I knew I could have the towels ready in a short time, so had time to relax.
I’d been sitting down for only a few minutes when there was a knock on the door. The guys weren’t due in for about an hour and a half; everyone was outside. Therefore, I casually called out, “Go away!”
There was a short pause, and another knock. This time I called out, “Nobody here!”
There was a shorter pause, then a key slid into the lock, the door opened, and there was Coach. I said, ”Oh, I didn’t know it was you, Coach!” He looked down at me, glanced at my magazine, took two of the few folded towels which he draped around his neck (probably to keep the drizzle I was avoiding from running down his neck), turned around and went back outside. He never said a word. He didn’t scowl, didn’t frown; he didn’t smile. Just turned and left.
As soon as the door was closed, I folded the towels as quickly as I could, and joined everyone else in the drizzle that frequents early spring days in the Pacific Northwest. I’m glad Coach and I had a good relationship. I had always tried to do my best for him, and he had placed me in a position of responsibility.
Every morning, a laundry truck would back up to the P.E. loading dock and drop off several bags full of 150-175 big white fluffy towels. Unfolded. These bags were put in a small room next to the shower room. The room was lined with, in the morning, empty shelves. By the time the guys came in after practice, the bags were to be empty and the shelves lined so that when the window between the towel room and shower room opened, everything was ready.
Most of the time we could get all the towels folded in about 45 minutes, and then we’d go outside where it was a little more fun and there was more camaraderie. By my senior year, I’d reached the place where I could get all the towels folded in about 25 minutes. But one spring day, I decided I’d move a little slower. The skies looked like it was about to drizzle as classes ended. I didn’t really want to be out in that any more than necessary. Besides, I had a new copy of Mad magazine I wanted to check out. So I locked the door, folded towels for a few minutes, then settled down on a mostly full bag of towels to read my magazine. I knew I could have the towels ready in a short time, so had time to relax.
I’d been sitting down for only a few minutes when there was a knock on the door. The guys weren’t due in for about an hour and a half; everyone was outside. Therefore, I casually called out, “Go away!”
There was a short pause, and another knock. This time I called out, “Nobody here!”
There was a shorter pause, then a key slid into the lock, the door opened, and there was Coach. I said, ”Oh, I didn’t know it was you, Coach!” He looked down at me, glanced at my magazine, took two of the few folded towels which he draped around his neck (probably to keep the drizzle I was avoiding from running down his neck), turned around and went back outside. He never said a word. He didn’t scowl, didn’t frown; he didn’t smile. Just turned and left.
As soon as the door was closed, I folded the towels as quickly as I could, and joined everyone else in the drizzle that frequents early spring days in the Pacific Northwest. I’m glad Coach and I had a good relationship. I had always tried to do my best for him, and he had placed me in a position of responsibility.
In the book of Revelation, Christ is portrayed as standing at the door to our hearts, knocking. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone opens the door to me, I’ll come in…” What a contrast with what happened between Coach and me. True, they both knocked. They both knocked more than once. But unlike Coach, who opened the door and came in whether I wanted him to or not, Christ will only come in if I open the door. We can ignore Him if we choose. We can tell Him to go away, and He’ll leave us alone. However, I don’t think He’ll accept, “Oh, I didn’t know it was you, Jesus!” the way Coach did. When you or I hear him knocking, how happy we’ll be if we throw the door open right away. Every day. Every time.Only one towel per person, guys. Keep moving.
Have a great day!
Dr. G
No comments:
Post a Comment