Dear Coaching Board,

I expected to have to write this letter, oh, twenty or thirty more years from now. Maybe longer! Someone was going to have to pry you and my whistle from my cold, dead hands! I never could have imagined that I’d be writing this letter today. I don’t really remember when I first decided I was going to be a coach- it was just always part of the plan. Teach history and coach basketball. And for eleven years, I did that. But, of course, you know that! Ever since I ripped open that Christmas present fourteen years ago that Dad had so carefully wrapped you in with a shiny new whistle, and a pack of 3X5 cards (because all good coaches use 3X5 cards!), you have been with me through all the practices, late night bus rides, exhilarating victories, and agonizing defeats. You were at my side when during our very first year coaching, we won a District Championship! You were at my side seven years later when we stepped onto the court at my alma mater as a coach, not a player. I remember staring at you in disbelief after my girls won their first playoff game in over a decade. I remember my girls staring at you in confusion because they couldn’t follow my “scribbling”. Do you remember the game when I broke my marker on you because I was trying WAY too hard to make my point? Of course, you do! You were not happy with me that night! You have seen me laugh with my teams, cry with my teams, and shout for (and at) my teams.

But more than those exciting basketball moments, you also witnessed the times I chose to set you aside because one of my girls needed me to stop talking about basketball for a minute. You saw me the day I had to pull one of my starters aside during a big game to say, “Your team needs you on the court, but I will not put you back in this game if you have that attitude again.” You sat on the bench as I told my point guard, “I care more about your health than winning this game, so you better not lie to me.” You were in my hand when I looked at one of my players and said, “You have no reason to be discouraged, you gave more than 100% today, and that’s all the Lord requires of us.” You watched from the sidelines the day my star player ran to me as soon as the buzzer went off and whispered, “I’m with you all the way, Coach.” You were there for every pre and post game huddle that ended with prayer and quoting Colossians 3:23-24. You were always by my side, and I loved you. So why are you packed somewhere in a box in the basement now? Why can’t I bring myself to walk downstairs, find you, and walk onto the court with you again?

Two years have passed since I first put you in that box! How has it been two years since you and I last stepped on to the court together? Two years since I last scribbled ferociously with a blue marker all over your slightly stained white surface during a quick time out. Two years since I dropped you a little too hard on the floor beside my chair when I got excited that my youngest player made a basket! It’s been two whole years since I threw you, again a little too hard, on my chair as I took a brisk step on to the court to yell at one of my girls for making a terrible pass. Two years since I held you firmly in my hands as I confidently followed my girls out of the locker room to face our opponent. Actually, that last part is not completely true. We’d have to go back more than two years to find the last time I was confident walking out of the locker room. You, of all “people”, know that, too. Because that tenth and eleventh year, you stayed inside my coaching bag much more often. I can only imagine how I made you feel. I should never have left you zipped up in that bag, but I felt like I didn’t know how to use you anymore. The confident twenty-two year old Florida coach who won two District Championships and one State Championship with you, was nowhere to be found anymore, and I don’t know how (or if I even want) to find her again.

Did I ever tell you why coaching basketball was always part of “the plan”? Remember all those huddles that ended with prayer? That’s why. Because when I was a young athlete my coaches ended every practice and game with prayer. Because my coaches taught me that loving basketball and pushing to be excellent was important, but it wasn’t the MOST important. Winning was our goal, but it wasn’t THE goal. Because my coaches showed that they loved me, even if I wasn’t the best player on the court, even if I messed up, even if…the ball game wasn’t the most important thing to them. I was. And I knew it. That’s why I wanted to coach. So I could be that coach to a quiet 11 year old who was shocked she even made the team, to a cheerleader turned to basketball player who just wanted to be an encouragement to others, to a 4’11 (and ¾) guard who always tried to play as if she was 10 feet tall, to a quick young 7th grader charged with guarding the other team’s best shooter, to a frustrated 8th grade post player who just wanted to be successful, to a quiet 10th grader who just loved the game and grew into a leader, to a hesitant emotional 9th grader who demanded perfection from herself, to a…well, I guess that’s enough for you to understand. At some point, you were in my hand as I talked to every single one of those girls. You know more than anyone just how much I prayed for, cried over, laughed with, and LOVED my girls- not for their basketball talent- but for WHO they were. That’s why you and I were on that court together.

You have probably figured out by now that this is a goodbye letter. As much as I obviously loved our time together, the world of Christian school sports has changed. We have to be the best no matter what it costs. If the season doesn’t end with a Championship trophy, it wasn’t successful. The attitude our players exhibit on and off the court doesn’t matter, but the win tonight does. Missing church or service opportunities is acceptable, but players better think twice about missing practice. “Better” only applies to the sport, not an athlete’s emotional, social, or spiritual maturity. Watching this change take place over the past several years broke my heart and I still wrestle with an overwhelming sense of grief. Grief for the next generation of athletes who aren’t being taught, as I was, WHO we play for. Grief for the young athletes who aren’t being taught that your attitude and character is more important than your talent and statistics. Grief for the athletes who will grow up believing that their success is determined by a scoreboard. Just…grief. What I wouldn’t give to be a 16 year old kid again, fist confidently in the middle of our team huddle before playing one of our biggest conference rivals, and saying with the rest of my teammates, “Knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance for ye serve the Lord Christ.” What I wouldn’t give to be a 26 year old coach again, holding you confidently in one hand with the other fist confidently in the middle of our team huddle, reciting Colossians 3:23-24 with my team. But that’s all in the past. It’s history. I never could have imagined our time together ending this way, and I don’t know that my heart will ever truly heal from what it lost.

John Wooden once said, “Young people need models, not critics.” I think of my coaches who modeled what a Christ-honoring person looks like. Who, because of that example, had an eternal impact on the girls I later coached. I can’t help but wonder what this new style of Christian school coaching is modeling…and what the result of that will be. That is not a question I am going to get an answer to today, and this “Dear John” goodbye is already longer than I intended. So, thank you. Thank you for the memories. I truly am sorry for leaving you in the basement these last two years. I am sorry the layers of dust will continue to build on your once white surface, but I promise that if the Lord ever calls me back into coaching, you will be the first to know.

Until then, know you are missed, old friend.

“Heartily” for Him,
Coach P

My Darling TA,

I am counting the hours until we can be together again. Waiting for the endless frigid winter winds to cease their blowing, for temperatures to rise, for warm spring air to beckon us to answer the summons of the open road. I know you want it too; you miss me just as much as I miss you.

From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew we were destined to be together.

Your bronze metallic sheen sparkling in the balmy sun, accented by the thin golden lines framing your sleek curves. The majestic phoenix, fiery plumage resplendent across your glinting hood, reposing in a state of honor, regal presence guarding the realm.

You complete me. I am the pilot, the guide on this journey. You are my royal chariot, your deep baritone purring; keeping time to the beating of my quivering heart. The pulsing vibrations reverberate through my being. Pains and worries float away through the unveiled t-top, as the gentle breeze ruffles my hair.

From the moment I slide into the seat of honour behind the wheel, and turn the key, our shared adoration takes flight. Slipping into reverse and pressing down on the pedal, the rendezvous that awaits us on the horizon fills me with anticipation. Gliding onto our route, the familiar sweet scents of sultry summer air mingle with the subtle hint of gasoline.

You make me feel young again, the comforting glow of nostalgia; I am transported back to a simpler time. Cruising the countryside, the soothing hum of your engine joins in the chorus resonating from the archaic cassette player: “Don’t stop believin, Hold on to that feelin”-etched in my mind forever-I will never stop believing in us, my love. I will cherish this glorious feeling for time everlasting.

I know you think you are ageing. Rest assured, I will be by your side to help you navigate the speed bumps and the potholes, steering you safely around the bends in the road. Working together as a well-oiled machine, we will ensure you are aligned, well-maintained, and polished to a dazzling gleam.

Always remember, you are not just a ‘car’. You are an icon, a legend in your time. As we coast the streets, the awe and adoration on the faces of onlookers is clear: they wish they could be me. There are no words to express the pride I feel at their admiration and envy. You are the talk of the town, my dear, and all mine.

As winter nears its end, I count the days until we can be together again. I am my best self when I am with you.

I remain,

Always and forever,

Your copilot in love.

Dear Unsealed,
I love the smell of the ocean.
I love to feel my toes in the sand.
It is a potion
Of a notion
As I walk upon this mountainous land
Of sand and sea and valleys
And alleys
Of sandcastles built upon the sand
Of our America land.
I cried today,
Along my paths highway
Of illusions
Of delusions
Of lies spewing from control freaks
Of tweakers and tweaks,
Of I just want to sit on the shore
Forevermore.
Look at the ocean.
Look at the sky,
Of notions
And potions.
I pray for peace to calm the turmoil
Of dictators and liars in high places,
That creates turmoil and hate and boils,
Of ugliness in all spaces.
I carve my peace of calm
On the beach,
To reach prayers of songs
To the universe to bring peace
As the calm after the storm
As the fisher in the boat of life,
Not of strife.
I sit on the shore,
Forevermore.
To smell the salty air, and the cries of the seagulls
As they fly up above
My head.
I see the ocean.
I see the beach,
Of I love the smell of the ocean
I love to feel my toes in the sand.
It is a potion,
Of a notion
As I walk upon this mountainous land
Of sand and sea and valleys
And alleys
Of sandcastles built upon the sand
Of our America land.
I cried today,
Along my paths highway
Of illusions
Of delusions
and potions.
As peace flows through my body
As I sit on the shore forevermore
To embrace the ocean
As a potion.
I love you my retreat
Away from mean peeps.
A retreat from hate,
Debate,
To relate,
We are all a part of earth,
Before birth and after birth
To death of all.
I pray we all learn,
The ocean way,
To yearn,
For love and truth.
I love you, ocean of dreams,
And schemes to cherish your embrace
Of romance
From birth
Tio my ashes
Are spread in the love
Forevermore
Upon the shore.

PEACE AND LOVE CONQUERS EVIL!

You shade me with love and allow just enough light with your fenestrations. An earthly treasure I’ve found, beauty in every leaf you hold. Watching you grow from a baby to a teen plant now, I have learned some of life’s most important lessons; removing things that no longer serve me, hydrating for rejuvenation, and moving into a different space since I’ve outgrown the old. I can’t wait until you tower over me so I can shade myself under your large leaves some more. As life becomes more complex, you stay consistent. I may grow old and wrinkled, but you will continue to thrive in your greenery. Thank you for teaching and loving me. Even when I’ve reached my lowest points, your resilience to my neglect is unmatched. Your forgiveness for me shows in your growth. I love you, my monstera deliciosa.

Crimson red,
resembling dripping blood,
a whisper and a scream,
a flame of passion,
allure of elegance,
a picture of love.

Prick me,
thorns surround,
and make me bleed,
yet delicate petals,
tender, a fragrance so sweet,
with beauty that marks the world.

You are my favorite,
no other can compare,
one, or a thousand blooms,
making your heart skip a beat,
dancing with romance,
enchanting radiance.

Majestic in every way,
the queen of the garden,
dangerous to the touch,
yet I can’t resist,
the thorned nature,
that draws one in,
sweetly divine.

Dear Writing,

When you came into my life in a new way seven years ago, I didn’t know then that it would be the love I wanted and needed. We became acquainted again thanks to a mother figure who showed me how glorious and attractive you are; inside and out.

My eyes became new when I saw you through her testimonies and words. Sadly, she would stop showing you around because her life became busy. Months passed by, and I kept hoping that she would show you around again, but there was something about you that kept calling me.

After wrestling with these new feelings, a lightbulb finally went off in my head to speak to you myself. When I started talking, you talked back with emphasis and enthusiasm. You allowed me to be a part of your home. You even introduced me to many people who would enrich my life in ways I couldn’t imagine.

Even though I would quickly become addicted to you, even over text you, it didn’t scare you off. If anything, you encouraged me to speak to you more, even at midnight. I’m terrible at saying the L word, but I hope I show my love for you and all you’ve done for me during our run together.

Your presence has given me the vitamins needed to thrive every day. Because of you, I have a much clearer vision of my creativity inside me. Without you, my life would be dramatically different in the last several years. I wish I had seen you in this light many years ago, but I guess I needed to do some discovering to find you.

I could thank you a billion times and it still wouldn’t be enough. When I read pieces from other writers who share their love for you, I truly get it. So, thank you, writing. I salute you, and I’ll keep honoring you for eternity.

Sincerely,

Gerald

Dear Holly and Teddy,

Monkey and bear… Monkey and bear…

An unlikely pairing, yet a match made in heaven.

Holly, you are the monkey I have had since my sixth birthday. One would think you are an ape–you look like a chimpanzee–but you have a little stub of a tail. That makes you a monkey.

I begged my parents to get you for me when I saw you at Disneyland. Ever since then, you and I have been inseparable.

You used to squeak, but I loved you so much I broke your squeaker and now you talk with the words I put in your mouth.

You lost your pretty pink dress many years ago and I replaced it with my favorite panda t-shirt I wore when I was four.

One ratty pink bow remains above your left ear. I pierced your ears when I was a teenager and then took your earrings out shortly before my adulthood.

Teddy Eddy, you are the bear my grandparents gifted my mom for Christmas when she was 16 years old. You came from Weinstock’s, the department store relic of yesteryear.

Teddy, you are 14 years older than Holly, yet you became besotted with her when I was 14 years old.

You wanted to marry her and spend the rest of your life with her when she was only eight years old.

Apparently, age doesn’t matter to stuffed animals. You are both perpetually five years old. You both wanted to get playground-married, in front of all of your stuffie friends.

And me, of course.

I decided that marriage was too huge a commitment for inanimate objects, occasionally come alive.

You wanted to live with Holly under the deck outside the house and build your own little home together.

I told you no, there were too many cobwebs and possums that would claim you as their own.

You and Holly remain devoted to each other to this day. Who needs marriage when you have a solid lifelong commitment?

Both of you were devastated when I lived on my own for 11 years. I took Holly with me, and Teddy, you needed to stay with my mom.

After all, I borrowed you for many years. Mom wanted you back. And I couldn’t be without my Holly, even as an adulty-adult.

Your little Teddy Bear heart filled with ecstasy when I moved back in with my mom five years ago and brought Holly with me.

I have been without the human love of my life for years, and probably will be without her for the rest of my life.

But you, my true loves, will be with me for as long as I shall live, through thick and thin, fires and floods–nothing will come between us.

I love you, Holly and Teddy. My monkey and bear, in love for life.

(100% Style Score)

It has been three months since I began daydreaming about my return to you. We had so many plans and goals to achieve this year. Sadly, everything shall be postponed as I cannot walk on solid ground; my two legs that once helped me drive to, swim in, and paddle among your beauty are not functioning as they once were. Screws and anchors now aggressively occupy spaces not meant for them. Muscles not in use become weakened shadows of their once-strong selves. Tendons take time to heal and reattach, and I must overcome this hardship before I can unite with you again.

The emotional cell I’m stuck in is more challenging than the physical ailments of recovering. My usual solace in this hectic life, my “me time,” my peace, my re-centering time, and my serene surroundings are currently not an option. You have been in my life since I was a little girl. You remain the same, yet you have helped form me into the woman I am today. I reminisce about our times together, listening to your symphony of soothing sounds and watching videos and photos of our journeys. You gave me coping methods to deal with my troubles and frustrations physically, mentally, and spiritually. You’ve helped me learn how to regulate my emotions. On tough days, I would hurry excitedly home to grab my paddleboard, strap it on the jeep, drive to the dock, and paddle it out. On good days, I head out to float in the happiness and peacefulness of the sun or moon glowing on my skin. My senses are always heightened with you. My hearing expanded beyond the next visible bend, and my sense of touch intensified with every splash against me, demonstrating the refreshing coolness of your fluid motion. The sensation of wind against me was always encouraging me to paddle harder and go further, to persevere in my challenges. When I am hurting, you heal me in the most incredibly soulful way.

I never entirely understood just how deeply I am connected to you until I was forced to be apart. The depth of my love and appreciation of you have become evident in the days of healing at home. A single memory of you helps calm these periodical stormy waters within. The magical guidance of your ripples, your revealing reflections, and the wild currents within you take me on majestic rides of clarity and give birth to many of my aspirations. Thank you for continuing to let your love flow through me.
Healing River, my absent love, we shall reunite in the coming months, and what a glorious embrace it will be.
Until I return, all my love,
K.

In my youth, I had found there wasn’t much I liked. I hated loud chewers. People who asked how I was. I hated when people looked me in the eye and hated when people wore bright colors. Shirts with sayings. I hated when it was too hot out, or not hot enough, or too bright. I hated when a person’s laugh came out reserved and when a person laughed too loud. I hated being alone, and I hated crowds too. 
“There has to be something you like,” my therapist said, “something that you enjoy.” I almost felt my face reach boiling point. My heart raced, and my fingers dug into the sides of my legs. I hated when people did that. I hated when people pried. I hated to talk about myself. “You don’t have to answer right away…” she encouraged gently. “Just think for a moment.” I hated when people spoke to me in that way; why would I need time to consider? I hated to feel stupid or behind. I hated being given time. I stared down at my feet, but the weight of time passing became crushing. I hated to take too long. “I like music.” My eyes never left the floor, and her eyes never left me. “I like music, and I like to draw.” I found myself convinced of her motive. She wants to appear indifferent to my answer in an effort to elicit a response from me. I figured this would give her an opinion on me, and I hated perception, too. Being in and out of therapy had taught my young mind something: in order to overcome, you had to break open and fall apart, and the idea of it frightened me more than it angered me.
As I grew older, I found the things I loved changed very little. I still love music, and I still love art. I’ve since been to art school and have since learned many new songs and new artists’ names. What surprised me the most was this: I didn’t hate all those things when I was young. I hated me. My mother often laughed at those things I hated—not to be cruel, though. Those things I despised were all things I did as well. In my childhood, I came across people who hated the things that I loved. And in a desperate act to be something they loved, I altered myself to become more desirable. I couldn’t be too loud or too quiet. I couldn’t be flashy or too modest. You were supposed to fit in no matter what.
I didn’t realize it, but I had become a pretty good liar in the sense that I had fabricated this life that was not my own, and somehow it wasn’t even one I enjoyed. But you knew that, didn’t you? For years you were watching, lurking within my shadow; you were waiting for me to notice—or waiting for me to learn about you as much as you had learned about me. It took heartache after heartache, but I fought hard to change. How could I turn this anger—this hatred—into something bigger than myself, because it had always been bigger than me. 
I sat on my front porch one day, and my stomach was empty. It was fall. The trees were stripping themselves of their leaves, coating the ground in a dance of oranges, reds and browns. I thought about how long it takes a tree to grow—and to sprout leaves. I thought to myself, what is the point of growing if all you do is change? And then it clicked. I remembered in that moment, being a small child, not even ten years old. I sat on the porch just as I was now, and I had thought about how beautiful the trees looked. I hadn’t given it much thought past that, but every season I would sit on our creaky wooden porch and stare out at the trees that had always been there. I loved them because they could change. Something changed in me that day—I felt outside of myself. I knew what you would be for me—the have the freedom to change. 
I’m not a perfect person, but I had to let you know what you’d done for me. By knowing you, I’ve come to know myself better. My friends tell me I have a loud, teethy, wheezy laugh. It fills a room they say. Bright colors compliment me well, and my silly t-shirts tend to catch a laugh or two. By loving you, I’ve come to love myself. Without the freedom to change, I’d still be that angry child I’d been for years.
I am no longer who I was.
—Kara Gay

Soft fur brown eyes the last gift he gave to me
you were there the night he died holding me in the dark
through all those nights feeling lost and alone
unloved by those around me
you were there to remind me that love does excise
you were there when I awoke from the pills, I took thinking I fail at everything
the look I see is you imploring me to go on
I keep moving through life slowly while time goes by fast
then one night a fire caught, and the blaze destroyed everything
you were gone lost in the flames of memories past
I dug through Debrie hoping you survived crying and screaming for you not to be gone
covered in soot and mud I sit and cry wanting you here
my cherished item that helped me though this life gone forever in flames
how will I go on without my teddy bear to remind me that I was loved once

Crab Rangoon,
Your light and crispy exterior excite me when I see you. The steam billowing off you when you are fresh from the fryer. I like to tear you open. That crunch and pull ignites my salivary glands, knowing what awaits me on the inside. The sweet and tangy creaminess melts in my mouth with the crispy skin that sends the happy hormones to my brain. You are my one true crabby, creamy love. I smile at the thought of you, swoon at the sight of you, and delight in every bite of you. I look for you on every menu and forage for you at every buffet. Your pinched little puffed body beckons me closer, like a ray of sunshine to a dying plant. My love for you only grows with each encounter. I ardently await our next meeting.
Love,