Bulls Eye

My parents were pretty social folks, now that I think back. Let's see, there was the Friday night bowling league, where my sister and I would spend hours playing next to the lockers. The smell of smoke, the sound of bowling balls crashing . . . ah yes, it's all coming back now.

I can also remember spending our Saturdays at the flea market. My parents loved spying out other people's junk. I could never get that figured out. But as I grew, I learned to appreciate the treasure or two you can find in somebody else's throw-away pile. Any time I hear Hispanic music playing, I am brought back to those tender flea market days.

Then on Sundays, we would head out to wild of Mt. Madonna. Our family belonged to an archery club back in the day (shows you how cool we were). I have wonderful memories of trucking up and down that mountain with my little sister in tow. I remember the path we took, either at the top or the bottom half of the mountain. It would take us close to two hours just to get through one of those halves. We'd break for lunch, have a few laughs with some good friends, then trek through the rest of the targets until sundown.

I loved frolicking through all that brush. Those were my dreaming days. When I was on that mountain, it was as if I was floating above the reality of any limitations. I was no longer an awkward kid - I became Dorothy Hamil, or Marie Osmond on that terrain. I longed to break out of what seemed to be the shackles of childhood - so that I could grow up and reach my destiny.

The smell of the air was so clean and pure. The crunch of leaves beneath my feet acted as a compass, and the scratchy feel of tree bark became my bench. We would often times hear the rustling of little critters, and once in a while, we had an encounter with a big one. My favorite of course, was the banana slug. I've seen some pretty ferocious ones in my day.

I may have been just a kid, but I wasn't just there to tag along. My dad bought me my own bow and arrows, and through the years he taught me how to shoot. With a quiver on my hip, and an arm guard strapped to my forearm - I couldn't be stopped. Practice made, well, not so perfect - but I have to admit, I wasn't half bad.

One year, we traveled to another city (Santa Cruz perhaps) so that we could participate in what was called "A Shoot". This was serious stuff. Upon arrival, you had to register according your your age, the kind of bow hunter you were (compound or freestyle), and your level of expertise. Feeling brave one day, I asked my Dad if I could participate.

"Sure kid." He said. "But I don't want you to get your hopes up - you don't even qualify for a trophy."

The words hit me like a brick, but I still gave it my all that day. It was the best I had ever shot, and I knew that if I was qualified, I would have had a pretty good chance.

Morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon to evening. Scores had been tallied, and the best shooters had been decided on. It was time to announce the winners.

Everyone gathered into one big clump. Starting with the novice group, they began calling out names. I looked over at my Dad, and he gave me a kind of a sympathetic wink. I wasn't expecting to win, after all, for whatever reason - I wasn't qualified. However, it still would have been nice to bring a trophy home.

Then, it happened - words I never expected to hear belted through the loudspeaker.

"And for the eight to ten year old intermediate division, we have Joanne Anger." I was stunned. I looked over at my Dad. He smiled and gave me a shrug.

I couldn't figure out for the life of me why my Dad was untruthful. His explanation was that he didn't want me to get my hopes up, only to be disappointed. I can understand why he wanted to protect me, but his so called "protection" robbed of something that day. Hearing that I wasn't qualified, had me believing even deeper down that I wasn't valuable enough.

Just like all good parents, my father made what he thought to be the best decision that day. But in his attempt to protect me, I was guarded from what this little dreamer has always needed most - hope. I was heartsick before I even shot my first arrow that day. These days, the enemy tries to tell me I'm not qualified for all kinds of things. And most of the time he is right. Something inside of me still believes the lie.

I held that trophy up high all the way to the car that day. Dorothy Hamil and Marie Osmond had taken a back seat in my dream world that triumphant afternoon. The reality of my childhood became larger than life, because for a moment . . . I was famous.

The great part about all of that today, is that I am NOT qualified for what God calls me to. My reliance on the power of Christ is the only thing that could get me into the game. My greatest challenge now, is believing that I am valuable enough. It has been a hard bulls eye to hit.

My heavenly Father's protection looks a little bit different from my Dad's all those years ago. God pulls out all of the stops, convincing me that through Christ - I am more than enough.