All my 57 years I’ve been playing hard. Diving into home plate headfirst, running up the cement stadium steps time after time or pushing to keep up with the younger ladies at aerobics class just seemed like the thing to do.

My years of playing second base provide me with many pleasant memories and much writing fodder. The stadium steps effort garnered me a spot on my high school track team traveling squad even though others could run faster than I. And the special friendships forged through aerobics will last a lifetime.

When I met my husband I loved hearing about whatever he loved to talk about, and he loved to talk about tennis. With his encouragement I decided to let him teach me to play. Although the score keeping was a little different, I figured it wouldn’t take much to gain enough skill to play a friendly match.

Upon glancing around the court and finding it empty I breathed a sigh of relief. Yes indeed, an empty court suited me just fine. Mike was a wonderful player and a patient teacher, but I desired no audience.

It didn’t look this hard when I watched the girls on TV. They had pranced around the court in their cute little tennis outfits effortlessly lobbing the ball to any corner at will, thus giving me a false sense of security in my as yet untested abilities. I know southern girls glisten, but I was sweating as a ran around the court missing shot after shot and looking decidedly “uncute,” although I’m sure my southern gentleman husband would have never dared agree.

As my make-up melted down my face, I noticed a glamorous looking lady and her partner stride onto the adjoining court. Hmmm…I’d better pick up my game. This woman is probably a tennis pro.

Just then, my husband hit a ball almost off the court, and in my determination to “get my game on” I lunged to make the shot. With all the aerobics I had done over the years my tall frame still held quite a few pounds, and I felt every ounce of weight as I landed hard on my right knee.

The Bible has a few things to say about pride going before a fall. In my case it was followed by a pretty nasty injury. Ice packs and rest did nothing to relieve the painful swollen joint and led me to my next stop in life’s journey, the orthopedic surgeon.

Much to my surprise and dismay, the surgeon nonchalantly stated, “Your knee doesn’t look too bad, but more than likely you’re looking at two hip replacements in your future.” Fear’s icy fingers gripped my throat and have hung on pretty tight for the past two years as I wished away the painful prognosis.

A still, small voice spoke to me a couple of weeks ago giving me new perspective. I now have an appointment for a second opinion.

What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee. (Psalm 56:3 KJV)

All my 57 years I’ve been playing hard. Diving into home plate headfirst, running up the cement stadium steps time after time or pushing to keep up with the younger ladies at aerobics class just seemed like the thing to do.

My years of playing second base provide me with many pleasant memories and much writing fodder. The stadium steps effort garnered me a spot on my high school track team traveling squad even though others could run faster than I. And the special friendships forged through aerobics will last a lifetime.

When I met my husband I loved hearing about whatever he loved to talk about, and he loved to talk about tennis. With his encouragement I decided to let him teach me to play. Although the score keeping was a little different, I figured it wouldn’t take much to gain enough skill to play a friendly match.

Upon glancing around the court and finding it empty I breathed a sigh of relief. Yes indeed, an empty court suited me just fine. Mike was a wonderful player and a patient teacher, but I desired no audience.

It didn’t look this hard when I watched the girls on TV. They had pranced around the court in their cute little tennis outfits effortlessly lobbing the ball to any corner at will, thus giving me a false sense of security in my as yet untested abilities. I know southern girls glisten, but I was sweating as a ran around the court missing shot after shot and looking decidedly “uncute,” although I’m sure my southern gentleman husband would have never dared agree.

As my make-up melted down my face, I noticed a glamorous looking lady and her partner stride onto the adjoining court. Hmmm…I’d better pick up my game. This woman is probably a tennis pro.

Just then, my husband hit a ball almost off the court, and in my determination to “get my game on” I lunged to make the shot. With all the aerobics I had done over the years my tall frame still held quite a few pounds, and I felt every ounce of weight as I landed hard on my right knee.

The Bible has a few things to say about pride going before a fall. In my case it was followed by a pretty nasty injury. Ice packs and rest did nothing to relieve the painful swollen joint and led me to my next stop in life’s journey, the orthopedic surgeon.

Much to my surprise and dismay, the surgeon nonchalantly stated, “Your knee doesn’t look too bad, but more than likely you’re looking at two hip replacements in your future.” Fear’s icy fingers gripped my throat and have hung on pretty tight for the past two years as I wished away the painful prognosis.

A still, small voice spoke to me a couple of weeks ago giving me new perspective. I now have an appointment for a second opinion.

What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee. (Psalm 56:3 KJV)

Jan Penton Miller can be reached at lilsisjan@yahoo.com.