THANKFUL

Remember, Lord God, the people you bought long ago. You saved us from our destruction—we belong to you forever—Psalm 74:2 (King Jimmy Translation)

Taking a Mulligan

Thirty-eight years passed since your humble Aggie scribe gave up the game that tries men’s souls—golf. It saved my sanity.

Our church was holding a golf tournament fundraiser for a mission trip, and I volunteered to help at the registration desk. As the wannabee golf pros signed in, I asked how many mulligans they wanted to purchase for five-dollars apiece. In golfing lingo, a mulligan is a ticket to take a “do-over” shot. For example, if someone makes an erratic shot and the ball lands in a water hazard or plops into a nuclear waste site, etc., the player uses a mulligan and takes the shot over. On his scorecard, the mulligan erases that bad shot—as if it had never happened. Many golfers, with their dreams of making the PGA Tour in jeopardy, purchased dozens of mulligans. Fortunately, a local bank offered financing.

One team had a last-minute cancellation, putting it a player short. Because I worked the check-in desk, the shorted team mistook me for a golfer and insisted I play with them. Working the registration desk didn’t make me any more a golfer than petting a kitten made me a lion tamer.

But I pondered the request. Even though I haven’t picked up a club in thirty-eight years, how hard could it be? Like remembering how to ride a bicycle?—just pick up a club and shoot under par?

“Sure,” I said, taking a step of presumptuous faith. “I’ll rent some clubs, and let’s go show these hackers how it’s done!” I purchased a couple mulligans, but doubted I’d need them. Besides, the mulligan money went to the fundraiser.

Russ, the clubhouse pro, had a new set of Strata clubs. This is an omen, I thought. It’s God’s will I play today. I grabbed the set of clubs and headed out, sure to set a course record.

I joined the players practicing at the driving range. After taking a few practice swings to loosen up the ole rotator cuff and shoulder muscles, I teed up the ball. That young whipper-snapper Jordon Spieths can learn a thing or two from me. After a couple more practice swings, I approached the ball.

Everyone on the practice range, everyone in the club house, everyone in the neighboring homes stopped what they were doing and watched me. Even the cars on the nearby boulevard stopped to watch.

This must be how Arnold Palmer felt, having the eyes of the gallery on him, I thought. I expect applause when I blast this ball 900 yards. “You guys don’t laugh,” I said, trying to cover my pride in case the shot wasn’t perfect. “I haven’t played in thirty-eight years.”

My swing proved to the gallery that I hadn’t played in fifty-eight years. The club struck the ground six inches behind the ball, and the ball dribbled off the tee. The Bermuda grass, dirt, and three earthworms went farther than the eighteen-inch flight of the ball. I grimaced and closed my eyes. No applause.

I held my hand up as if to accept praise. “That’s okay, guys,” I said, faking amusement at myself. “I meant to do that. Don’t try this at home—I’m a professional divot-maker.” I hoped my humorous remarks saved face, but that didn’t work either. We practiced forty-five minutes before hitting the course. My prayer was two-fold: Lord, don’t embarrass me, and don’t let me be nominated for the Divot Hall of Fame.

My first tee shot was mulligan-eligible, landing several yards shy of the ladies’ tee. I sensed by my teammates’ groans they may have wished they’d gone onto the highway to flag down someone to join them in my place.

As a writer, the debacle of my golf game gave birth to ideas for new stories. All the players in our group used their mulligans before the third hole. For the remainder of the tournament, we struggled to keep out of the sand traps, water hazards, and woods, but we laughed our way around the eighteen holes. Par was 72. I stopped counting after the eighth hole, when my score hit 180. I questioned my presumptuous faith.

Those mulligans for my struggling golf game weren’t the only ones I needed. Over thirty-five years ago, I needed a do over in life. My journey in life sometimes hooked to the left, only to be lost in the high grass. Or sliced to the right deep into the woods, while chasing some deceptive pleasure. If I wasn’t in a sand trap, I found myself in the rough, or more times than I can remember, in deep waters with the alligators. My life zigzagged every way except straight down the fairway that God had planned for me. Without a mulligan, I’d never make the green. Jesus purchased a mulligan for me when he gave his life on the cross. All my foolish mistakes, my sins, are forever erased from my scorecard, buried with Christ as if they never happened. By God’s grace, my life is credited as a perfect game, which is better than making par. I pray you too take the mulligan Christ offers.

Lord God, thank you for purchasing a mulligan for us after we found ourselves repeatedly trapped in the hazards of life. We’re thankful that as we play the game of life, your mulligans have paid for our mistakes—as if they never happened. You see our scorecard as being a perfect game. Thank you, Jesus.

Stay close to Jesus

Jimmy

P.S. Russ, the pro guy, gave me a lifetime membership at the club. My seismic hacking eliminated five gophers, drove every armadillo away, and unearthed an undiscovered oil reserve.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017