I held the bow in my left hand. With my right hand, I simultaneously gripped the arrow and pulled the string back as far as I could. I squinted my eyes, zeroing in on the bullseye, the target. I released the string, and with a twang, the arrow went sailing through the air – landing about three feet in front of me.
It was in my 10th grade P.E. class and once again I embarrassed myself with my lack of athleticism. Oh well, at least I didn’t let a team down. Thank goodness for individual sports like archery.
I am the most un-athletic person I know. When I was young, unless one of my best friends was captain, I was usually among the last three picked for a team. My natural reflex to any type of ball heading in my direction was to flinch and cover my face with my hands. I never learned tennis or golf, the games of women my age.
The only athletic activity I am remotely adept in is snow-skiing. Go figure – I’m a native Floridian and lifelong resident of the snowless, mountainless state. I’m not a proficient skier. Just ask my husband, whom I have pushed off the chair-lift more than once; or my brother, who once skied backwards while holding my ski tips when I panicked at the top of a mountain; or that couple in Austria I plowed down as I tried to make a turn. I’m thankful I couldn’t understand them as they were picking themselves up off the ground – I think it was something like “stupid American.”
So, you get the picture. I am not athletic. At. All. I do well to walk my dog, although I once sprained my ankle doing that. Considering this, I have one simple question.
If children are like arrows, how in the world did I manage to shoot mine off so far?
As arrows in the hand of a mighty man, so are the children of youth.