When I awoke last Friday, my stomach was feeling sort of…well you know…unstable. I am certain you know what I am talking about…the type of instability that causes you to stay close to a bathroom. Friday was not the best 24 hours of my life. Halfway through the day I realized that I had committed to play in a flag football tournament at our church the following day, but I knew I would suffer tremendous “ribbing” from my teammates and others if I canceled. So I swallowed my pride and a couple pepto-bismol tablets and away I went.
During the first game, our quarterback threw me a pass that was a little too long, but I decided to go for dramatic effect by stretching out my arms and diving to catch it. Big mistake. As soon as my slightly overweight body hit the ground, I felt my breath exit my body followed by some pain on my left side. I tried to take it like a man so I jumped up as if nothing was wrong and called for a substitute; after all, I had run fast and far to catch the pass, which I didn’t catch. We went on to lose that game as well as our second game and my flag football career came to a close.
Upon arriving back at home I took a few Advil, spent some time in a hot shower, and then lathered my body with Icy Hot because I thought I had a pulled muscle; however, when I woke up the next morning in horrendous pain, I knew my diagnosis was wrong. After I finished speaking in two morning services on Sunday, I went to our local emergency care department and found out that I had broken my ribs.
I often create my own moral to the story, but it is your turn. In your opinion, what should be the moral of this story?
