Ordinarily, at our local squash court, a dollar gets the use of a hire ball. Under our expertise, it regularly zooms through the rusted chicken wire ventilation near the roofline. A quick scamper out the back and over a fence usually brings the ball back into play. Not so the balls that lodge with amazing dexterity in the crevices between the roof beams and metal sheeting. These balls are doomed to remain, up with the solitary jogger hanging over a rusted fluoro, and a flip flop jammed artistically and unbelievably in the centre of the 15 foot high ceiling. For this reason, we don't buy our own $8 balls, we hire.
On the weekend the kids had a couple of hours booked, but arrived to find the one solitary surviving hire ball had a split in it. The lady at the desk smiled and helpfully pointed out the fact that she'd sticky-taped it together. A squash ball, Fiji Style. Obviously the lady has never played the game.
It made me think.
In what areas of my life am I using emotional stickytape, smilingly hiding the hole beneath? Lord, heal my wounds.
Eph 1:4 Long before he laid down earth's foundations, he had us in mind, had settled on us as the focus of his love, to be made whole and holy by his love. (The Message)