Done deal

I'm not done.

Tonight as I was scrubbing my knees, lower legs, arms, and any other part that had mud clinging to it-it hit me. No more war stories. No more mud. No more bruises the size of an orange. No more cleat marks up the shin. No more practices in the pouring rain.

As much as we hate it. As much as our bodies protest every movement. As much as we despise waking up for early morning conditioning. As much angst as khaki's create.

We love it.

That's what makes us who we are.
There in lies our identity. There in lies my identity, and that identity is about to be taken away. No doubt by God-for a reason. Everything has a place and a time, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.
Who are you?
"Hi, my name is Caitlyn."
No, who are you?
"Oh, who am I? Well-I'm a soccer player of course."
You realize that is about to be done, right?
"Well, yea, but I'm trying to ignore it."
So, who are you?
"Please stop asking me that. I don't know who I am without soccer. I don't know who I am without the dirty knees and bruised body."
Well, you had better figure that shit out.

Right? I really do need to. Who am I?
I will no longer be soccer.
I will be art.

UPDATE: I feel my heart rising. I feel my heart singing. I feel my heart crying. Soccer has been the constant-since the baby age of 3. That is 19 years. 19 years culminating in one final game. Tomorrow when I wake, I will be a soccer player no more, and I cannot wait. I cannot wait for God to define who I am by something new. Do not get me wrong, I am thankful for soccer. Thankful for the memories. Thankful for the lessons taught and learned. Thankful for the tears. Thankful for the laughter. Especially thankful for the friendships. Thankful for the humbling experience to lose-a lot. Thankful for the handful of wins.

Soccer has taken me to places I never knew existed, places of extreme pain but also places of extreme joy.

I am done.

+Ecclesiastes 3.1-8