This time of year brings much trepidation. A little anxiety. Maybe some fear.
Trepidation because I wonder if I will ever go back. Anxiety because I know there's always a chance. Fear because I never, ever want to.
There's a song by Willie Nelson entitled, "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys." That song was my anthem until 1988. I lived, breathed, cried and died by the Dallas Cowboys and how well they played. I know what you are thinking: I must have been a mell of a hess, judging by today's Cowboys.
But back then? Back then, they were America's team. They were the BOMB. And they were my God.
Literally. Really. I mean it.
Recently we moved from a home I had lived in for over 33 years. In the crawlspace were boxes I had not looked at in decades, boxes that held contents I never even knew I had. Several of those boxes held books and all those books had something to do with the Cowboys, either directly or indirectly. Where did I get the money to buy so many books? Well, I had plenty because God got nothing: none of me and none of my money.
The Cowboys, on the other hand, got it all. All of my heart, soul, strength and mind. During said move, I unearthed a journal from high school that was actually an assignment for one of my English classes. The journal contained entry after entry about the Cowboys, a boyfriend, the Cowboys, a boyfriend, back and forth and back and forth. More than one male friend on Facebook was mentioned in that journal. Sorry, I am not naming names. You may or may not know who you are.
For as long as I could breathe, I lived for America's Team. Growing up in Oklahoma almost predestined a person to be a Cowboy fan. And I grew up in a football home with a dad that loved OU and two brothers that lived to play. I had no choice.
I watched every game, subscribed to every magazine, bought every jersey, traveled to Dallas at least three times on Thanksgiving to watch a game. Was overjoyed when they won and devastated beyond consolation when they lost.
I remember my dad climbing up on our roof more than once to adjust our TV antenna so I could watch games that weren't broadcast in Longmont, Co, but were in Wyoming. Having a dad that was a TV repairman and engineer paid huge dividends back then. He risked life and limb so I could watch my team. Crazy stuff.
Or so I thought.
Crazier still was what happened when Jesus got ahold of me in late 1988. My conversion to Christianity was rapid, real, and powerful. My Bible and me were best friends. I took to heart the verse that speaks of not being able to serve two masters, new as I was to my faith. I immediately thought of the only other obvious God in my life: the Cowboys. He didn't say it in an audible voice, but it was darn near that: "You cannot serve Me and the Cowboys. One has to go."
It was the easiest, swiftest, most dramatic decision of my life. I went through every nook and cranny of my small rented condo in Boulder. I found every shirt, every sounvenir, even my prized Dallas Cowboys phone. I had boxes of things that were Cowboy related. I remember walking down three flights of stairs and tossing each box in the dumpster.
Clearly I forgot to toss the books!
Sometimes when I doubt my faith, doubt God's power, I remember those days. I know that nothing other than God almighty, the great I Am, could have delivered me from that other god in my life. There is just no way. Close to two decades of idol worship were gone in one fell swoop. It was life-altering, in more than one way.
I was reading verses the other day that the apostle Paul wrote to the church in Corinth and they resonated with me. "All things are lawful, but not all things are profitable. All things are lawful, but not all things edify." For me, the Cowboys did not edify and were clearly not profitable in my life. They had to go and that was clear. For others, maybe something else needs to go. All I knew was, I could only have one God, and I was over the top with my worship of a football team.
What was amazing was, not just the stuff was thrown in the trash. My desire to watch games or do anything else football-related went out the window. It was like it never even existed in my life. Years later, I was joyfully throwing a nerf football to my boys (an activity they loved) when my then-husband John commented, "I was wondering when God was going to give football back to you."
I stopped in my tracks at the profoundness of the statement.
I guess in a small way, He had allowed me to have a bit of joy while tossing a football to my sons. But to this day, I can never, ever truly embrace it like I did then, not even other teams. I watch the Cowboys sometimes and every once in a while I feel that emotion well up, sense that it is maybe meaning more than it should, and I take a big step back. And God is there to catch me with open arms, reminding me that He is enough, that He always has been.
Have I got this serve only one God thing down pat? Oh, I wish. But I will take the small victories. And the huge ones, too. And on that note, I'm thinking that the football books that take up an entire shelf of my bookcase may need to go now as well.
Any takers?