Dying to Live

Last day.

Everyone is packing. I can't move.

Giuseppe finds me sitting at the table. Paddle in hand. Motionless.

"I don't want to leave."

Giuseppe sits down. "Why?"

"Here I'm Luke. At home, I'll be that weird kid who counts numbers again."

"Want to play one last game?"

"No." Tears start. "I want to stay here forever."

Giuseppe picks up the other paddle. "Then let's play forever."

"Giuseppe..."

"Serve to me."

Tick.

First shot. Normal.

Tick.

Giuseppe returns it. Gentle.

Tick.

Second shot. Tears blur my vision.

Tick.

"For whoever wants to save their life will lose it" (Mark 8:35, NIV).

Tick.

Third shot. Desperate.

Tick.

"But whoever loses their life for me and for the gospel will find it."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Giuseppe starts playing differently. Every shot a lesson.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Luke, have you ever seen a seed die?"

Tick.

"What?"

Tick.

"A seed must die to become a tree."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"You have to let the Luke you were die to become the Luke you really are."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"You can't take this place with you. But you can take with you who you became here."

Tick.

The last shot. I miss it.

The ball falls.

Silence.

Giuseppe picks up the ball. He gives it to me.

"Keep this."

"Giuseppe..."

"Every time you look at it, remember: the Luke who loves exists. The Luke who is loved exists."

I take the ball. It's warm.

"You can't lose who you became here, Luke. Because who you became here is who you always were."

"You just know it now."

Final worship. Everyone shares.

My turn comes.

I stand up. Ball in hand.

"My name is Luke. Ten days ago, I didn't know who I was."

Total silence.

"I spent nineteen years pretending to be normal. Hiding who I am. Apologizing for existing."

"Then I met a ping-pong table. And Giuseppe. And all of you."

My voice breaks.

"I discovered that God doesn't love me despite being autistic. He loves me THROUGH my autism."

"That my differences aren't mistakes to correct. They're gifts to celebrate."

"That seeing the world differently allows me to see God where others don't look for Him."

Everyone is crying.

"Paul said: 'I no longer live, but Christ lives in me' (Galatians 2:20, NIV)."

"For ten days, I let the Luke who was ashamed die. And I let the Luke God has always loved live."

"The one who sees patterns in love. Who finds order in grace. Who counts the bounces of God's heart."

I raise the ball.

"This ball traveled between our paddles for ten days. But it was never ours."

"It was always God's. Like us."

"Now I'm going home. But not as the one who left."

"I'm going home as a son who knows he's loved. Exactly for who he is."

Giuseppe stands up. He applauds.

Everyone stands up. They applaud.

But not for me.

For God who took a broken boy and showed him he'd always been whole.

For Christ who lives in every difference.

For the Spirit who speaks through every bouncing ball.

"I went home different."

"Not because I changed."

"But because I stopped pretending to be someone else."

"Ping-pong taught me the physics of love."

"Giuseppe taught me the mathematics of grace."

"God taught me I've always been His son."

"Even when I didn't know it."

"Especially when I didn't know it."

THE END

In my final notebook entry: "Tenth day. I saw John 12:24, Mark 8:35, and Galatians 2:20 lived out in ten days of dying and rising. The Luke who was ashamed had to die for the Luke who is loved to live. Giuseppe gave me a ball to remember, but what I'll really remember is this: God doesn't make mistakes. He makes unique masterpieces. And I am one of them."

"The ping-pong ball sits on my desk now. Every day it reminds me: I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am loved beyond measure. I am exactly who God intended me to be."

"And that's enough."

"That's everything."