What do Jesus and table tennis have in common? They both start by saying “Love All”.

…

Last night was the last I’ll ever spend in the house where I spent my entire childhood. My brothers and I have left home, Molly, our beautiful golden retriever, passed on last summer, and the time has come for our parents to start writing the next chapter of their lives.

It was late, and I was in the kitchen finishing up my packing. My Dad, unbeknownst to me, was soon headed out on a Samaritans shift. “Thoughts on our last games of table tennis, pool, and backgammon, best of three for each?” I asked. His face split into a regret-filled smile of omniscience as he informed me that he was very soon headed out. The time we had was even shorter than I’d previously thought.

And so we ran. Out into the night, both knowing which one of the three we’d play. Under insufficient lighting, with tired and dusty bats, the twinkling ping of the restless orb began singing through the night.

Table tennis, in my eyes, is a uniquely magical game. Everything about it should be impossible. So small is the object, so fine are the margins. To those who maintain that we indeed do have free will, I ask whether you have played a game of table tennis while paying real attention?

The speed at which the parabolic arc of the arriving ball is calculated. The complexity in determining the exact amount of spin, based only on the shape of your counterparts’ paddle. The shaping of your body to meet it. The precision of your fine-motor-movements, angling perfectly one’s hand to provide just the right touch of power. All of this, happening within fractions of seconds.

Top spins, chop shots, side spins, drop shots. Net-clippers, edge-dinkers, jaw-droppers, heart-sinkers. There is such a dance to it, a give and a take, a meeting and a marrying. “Where on earth did that shot come from?!”, we ask of ourselves as well as our opponents. So deeply immersed, so deeply integrated, and yet aware that all happening before you is spontaneously emerging, with very little conscious input.

You maintain a vague feeling of foresight, of knowing how the next four shots will pan out, and yet you remain so irrevocably grounded in the present shot.

Table tennis is a game designed for meaningful, open, explorative conversation. It forces a forfeiture of our mind’s fortitudes, slackening our self-conscious sentries. In the magic of the game, in the freewheeling back and forth, such guardians drop away, and we are left with free expression and open delight.

I used to be incredibly competitive when playing table tennis. Every shot, every point, every game was just a grind to assert myself on the table. Relax, dude. How exhausting. Give yourself up, let the ego drop away, and slip instead into the space within which all this is appearing. Don’t fight and grapple and strain: instead flow and bask and appreciate all that is within the Great Ever-Unfolding.

And so followed our singular game. First to eleven, three serves each. Some of the most electric table tennis ever conjured. Exhibition-style. Every shot propagating charisma, joy, gratitude, and glory. The score didn’t matter, nor did the result. Both of us just glad, my Dad and I, to share that moment.

When staring down the barrel of one’s final night in the house of one’s life, what does one say? What are you to do? I have a suggestion: Find yourself two bats, find someone you love, and let the ball do all the speaking for you.