There's a double meaning in that. First, there's this:
Then there's this:
In my ongoing effort to follow Paul's exhortation to the church in Corinth (somewhere in Asia Minor, not Mississippi) and become "all things to all people," the other night I decided that I should walk on my hands. Now, I have never walked on my hands successfully ever before in my life. But this particular night I was coming into my apartment building and there were two of the young boys whom I have gotten to know over the last year, mostly through their lighthearted harrassment of me in one way or another. Anyway, there they were, attempting handstands right there in the landing. To describe the scene more precisely, there they were at on the concrete landing at the top of the five concrete steps that lead from the door to the hallway. We made small talk. I asked them how long they could hold it. They said their record was (a shabby, in my mind) ten seconds or so. They even had a stopwatch. I asked if I could try and they became excited, obviously expecting some great enlightenment. First attempt: I lasted about two seconds, which really isn't a handstand at all, it is more of a thrust into the air of one's legs and hindquarters that ends right back where it began. I needed more of a kick, I thought. Second attmpt: more kick. I was about to flop over on by back onto the concrete, so I began scrambling with my hands to try to get my weight and balance shifted back the other way. My hands did not realize it when they reached the top of the steps, but my face and a few other points of contact on the left side of my body did. I was bleeding and hobbling to my apartment. My glasses were bent, for the time, beyond wearing. I figured I would need stitches. And perhaps some hard liquor to ease my pain and drown my foolishness.
The boys were duly impressed. This suffering for Jesus is rough business.