Leaving a Legacy

I started full-time ordained ministry in 2013. At the outset of this career, I decided that I would take Fridays as a day off. This was a good decision, though I understand that there are compelling reasons that pastors like to take Monday off. But the thing about having Friday off? Other people don’t. So in 2013, I was in a new place without a strong community built up, so I tried something new. I played pickleball.

As a young 20-something playing pickleball at the YMCA on a Friday afternoon, I’m sure you’re aware of how many people in my generational cohort were present. Luckily, that has never been a major roadblock for me to enjoy a situation, so I kept going back. I remember some folks from that day. I remember Ed, who wore a cardigan every week regardless of the weather. There was Barb, who is a member of the USA Lacrosse Hall of Fame as well as the USA Field Hockey Hall of Fame. I remember these folks fondly, even as someone over five decades their junior.

But there was one person who I think about more often than almost anyone else from that time in my life.

Her name was Patty.

I’m not going to say that Patty was an intense person, but I will say that one does not earn the nickname “Pickleball Patty” without having a particular flare. Pickleball Patty was a kind and welcoming person. She would lend me a paddle before I owned one of my own, she would help when I was faltering on the rules of the game, she was one of the coordinators of the group. I appreciated Patty for who she was and am glad that I am still fond of playing pickleball to this day.

But she was intense.

She was a great player and could move really well. But even someone as skilled as Pickleball Patty is doomed to make a mistake every now and again. This was when Pickleball Patty would really shine. Every single time she would make a mistake, she would stage whisper to herself this one phrase, “Oh, Patricia!”

And this, more than anything else, has lodged itself deep inside my brain and finds its way to the surface with shocking regularity. I thought about this yesterday, when I was playing pickleball over at Dinkers in East Rochester. Whenever I would miss an easy shot, my first instinct was to aggressively bark out, “Oh, Patricia!” I did not, because 1) I’m not named Patricia, and 2) I’m the only person who knew Pickleball Patty. Now you all know about Pickleball Patty, so if we’re gathered on some random Thursday and I make a boneheaded play in our bridge game, don’t be surprised if you hear me utter a quiet, “Oh, Patricia!”

Why am I sharing this with you? Mainly because I couldn’t stop thinking about it. But if you come to this place looking for sagacity and insight, here is what I can leave you with:

You truly never know what impact you will have on other people, or something like that.

Peace,

Jeff

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