The Measure You Give

THE ARRIVAL

The pastor had announced it from the pulpit last Sunday: "Hearts on Fire Camp - anyone wanting to grow spiritually, sign up after service." Mom had looked at me with those eyes full of hope. I'd stared at my sneakers, counting the holes in the laces. One, two, three, four per shoe. Eight holes total. A perfect number, divisible.

My brain works like that. I see patterns where others see chaos, find order where others see coincidence. It's my gift and my curse. High-functioning autism means I live in the world but read it in a different language. It means I feel everything too intensely, but speak everything too quietly. I see invisible connections but struggle to make eye contact.

I prefer the mathematics of things to the words of people.

On that bus, while everyone laughed and shared stories, I stared out the window and counted telephone poles. But my heart was beating fast. Because sometimes God takes us where we don't want to go to show us who we never knew we could be.

THE SCHEDULE

"HEARTS ON FIRE - 10-DAY PROGRAM"

6:30 AM - Wake-up and personal devotions 7:30 AM - Community breakfast
9:00 AM - Morning Bible study 10:30 AM - Spiritual growth workshops 12:30 PM - Lunch and fellowship 3:00 PM - Sports activities (soccer, volleyball, basketball) 5:00 PM - Personal reflection time 6:30 PM - Evening worship 9:30 PM - Dinner 10:30 PM - Free time

And then, almost hidden at the bottom: "Ping-pong table available on the porch."

My heart recognized home. After reading the schedule three times (always three times, it's my rule), I made a decision that would change everything: I would watch the ping-pong games.

THE FIRST GAME

Marcus was serving when I arrived at the porch. Twenty-six years old, poster-boy Christian smile, the kind that makes faith look easy from the outside. Playing against him was Alex, one of the camp leaders.

Marcus wasn't playing. He was declaring war.

The ball flew violent, killer spin, impossible angles. Not to win well but to make the other guy lose badly. Alex responded with the same fury. Every rally a duel, every point revenge.

Tick. SLAM. SLAM.

I sat on the bench with my notebook. When the world becomes too noisy, I write what I see. It's my way of breathing in a universe that speaks too loud.

"Energy always returns. Exactly as it left."

Marcus made a violent shot. Alex returned it even more violently. Marcus increased the aggression. Alex doubled it. A perfect spiral of applied physics: action and equal and opposite reaction.

But it wasn't just physics. It was something deeper.

During morning Bible study, we'd read Jesus' words: "For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you" (Matthew 7:2, NIV). Words that floated in my mind like shapeless clouds.

Until this moment.

Watching that ball transform into a projectile of ego, I saw the physics of love. The spiritual law governing the universe written in the bounce of a plastic sphere. Marcus was sowing violence and reaping tempest. Measuring with aggression and being measured with war. It wasn't coincidence. It was applied theology.

"11 to 4, Marcus!" He raised his fist like he'd conquered Jerusalem. Two hours earlier, he'd led worship with a voice trembling with emotion, had prayed for "unity in the body of Christ" with passion that seemed genuine. Now he was crucifying that same unity on a ping-pong table.

Alex picked up the ball, visibly irritated. "Another game?"

And I, with my notebook on my knees and my heart beating fast, understood something no seminary had ever taught me: Christ hadn't established that law to limit us. He'd revealed it to free us.

Every shot was a choice. Every energy was a seed. Every bounce a self-fulfilling prophecy.

That evening, while everyone was at worship in the main hall, I returned to the porch. I picked up a paddle and a ball. I started playing against the wall.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A rhythm of prayer. Every bounce a whispered question: "Lord, if ping-pong gives back what you give, what would happen if someone gave grace instead of judgment?"

The ball came back, again and again. Faithful as a promise. Gentle as I'd sent it.

I thought of Paul revealing to the Corinthians: "Remember this: Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows generously will also reap generously" (2 Corinthians 9:6, NIV). He wasn't just talking about money. He was unveiling the mathematics of the Kingdom. The physics of eternity. The algorithm God wrote into the fabric of reality.

Even in a ping-pong ball.

"With the measure you use, it will be measured to you" wasn't a threat. It was an invitation to choose what kind of universe to inhabit. One ball at a time. One shot at a time. One heart at a time.

In my notebook that night, I wrote: "First day. I saw Matthew 7:2 come alive on a ping-pong table. Tomorrow I want to discover what else God has hidden in this game that everyone thinks is just a game."

I didn't know He was about to reveal the entire universe.