I have been watching the Winter Olympic Games, especially the skiing.  I admit I am fascinated by the bravery of those skiers, hurling themselves down the mountain, making sharp turns at speeds up to ninety-five miles an hour.  Last night I noticed for the first time the barriers on either side of course.  They looked like a fence at a NASCAR race.  I would hate to hit one of those doing ninety-five miles an hour.   

The long jumpers amaze me.  It is one thing to ski down a mountain when you know you have snow underneath you all the way.  It is another thing to willing go done a steep slope to hurl yourself into the air and fly as far as you can.  When I watch those folks land, my knees hurt from sympathy pains. 

The acrobatic skiers ski down the hill, then up a little hill, fly up into the air, and then twist their bodies around in weird contortions.  The last time I bent my body like that, a bee had gone down my shirt. 

My people’s long tenure in Florida meant we evolved into non-winter people.  We skied on water, not snow.  I tried skiing for the first time when I was twenty-five.  How hard could it be?  Much harder than I imagined.  First, there were the clunky boots.  How do you walk in those things?  Then you get the skis on.  Once I was clamped on, I found I could go backwards, not forwards. 

Getting to the top of the bunny slope was the hardest.  There was a moving carpet I was supposed to step onto.   I put my skis on the carpet and promptly fell down.  I couldn’t get up.  I was drug along, up the slope.  A small girl had fallen at the end of the moving carpet, and she looked in horror as this large man got closer and closer.  It didn’t help that her father was yelling, “Get up, get up, before that man crushes you and you die.” 

By the time I got to the end of the carpet, the little girl had rolled out of the way, one of my skis had come off, and I was wallowing like a beached whale on a white sand beach.  At the top of the Bunny slope, I finally was able to get to my feet, found my ski, put it back on, and was ready for my descent.   

I pushed off confidently with the assurance I could not go very fast on the bunny slope.  Soon, however, I was rushing past other skiers, past the trees, picking up speed.  I discovered I could not steer.  Every effort to slow myself or to turn seemed to have no effect.   

Bunny slopes are not that long, and I was approaching the end.  I knew how to stop: put the tips of the skis together and form a plow.  I did that, and nothing happened.  Everything they had taught me in beginners’ class was turning out to be a lie.  I widened my stance to make a bigger plow; I accelerated.  I seemed to be the exception to everything I had been taught about skiing. 

There was one more option when it came to stopping:  I could fall down.  Since I had already done so, I knew I could pull off this maneuver.  The orange netting was fast approaching, so I fell backwards.  One ski flew off to the right, the other to the left.  One of my sticks flew up in the air – I never did find it.   

I assessed my body condition.  Nothing broken.  I was wearing a camo bodysuit (definitely not ski attire), so no bruising had occurred.  The only thing wounded was my pride.   

My little jaunt up and down the bunny slope had taken over an hour.  I was losing feeling in my fingers, and I realized this was God’s sign to me that I was done for the day.  I returned my gear, and the man behind the counter looked surprised.  “Back so soon?” he inquired.  “Yep,” I replied, “I got my money’s worth.” 

The great lesson of that day was simple: God made some people to ski, and some people to sit in the lodge and admire the skiers.  I found great peace in discovering who God made me to be as I sipped hot chocolate in the lodge. 

It is good to try new things.  Sometimes God will lead you to a door and invite you to go through it just so you can learn it is not for you.