The Trees of the Field

My fears of my sore back interfering with my golf game were misplaced. It was my still-aching ribs that did me in.

This morning, I went to Camlachie Golf & Country Club with colleague David (he's a colleague in the sense that we're both working for the same boss: Lambton Presbytery. For now. Soon he'll be chaplaining in South Korea). Over 9 holes, he shot a 60, I ended with 65.

He was duly impressed by my ability to hit a tree 8 different times. And I don't mean "hit a tree" as in ripping through the leaves and phlangeal twigs. I mean "hit a tree" with a carooming thwock! that radically alters the flight path of the ball.

There's a hymn that repeats: "And the trees of the field with clap their hands". In Camlachie today, "the trees on the course were shaking in their boots, / because I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK".