Last evening I watched the end of the season. A year ago my son was injured, a broken bone in his arm, and he was living the misery of not being able to play. Nor could he enjoy his summer vacation. It was an unpleasant time, compounded by the fact that the injury had been preventable.
A year later things had changed. My son's new team came into this weekend on a sixteen game winning streak. They had captured a consolation and three straight tournament championships. An up and down team was suddenly on a roll. We came into this State Championship weekend hoping to continue our winning ways. Our plan played out as we made it to the semifinals. Our ace was on the mound as we played the number one team in the state. This was the game which we had to win. Unfortunately, things did not work out. I arrived late, the score board said, 2-0 and we were nothing. My son was at bat, worked an eight pitch walk, proceeded to steal second and third and he came in on a ground ball. 2-1. We were still in this. Their next at bat they scored. Now it was 3-1 and our ace was struggling.
In the third inning my son walked to the mound. The plan had been to use him in the championship game if we made it that far. We were off the plan, our backs to the wall. Two strike outs and a bouncer back to him (sandwiched around a wicked line drive base hit) and we were back in the dugout. He had 'the look' in his eye. I knew he was going to carry us. We would not go down without a fight.
In the seventh inning, losing 4-2, we sent up our last three men. Each tried his best and each failed. The other team celebrated wildly. We walked off.
Suddenly, I found myself wandering around, shaking hands with moms and dads with whom I have spent so many hours the last nine months. Many of them were strangers when we first gathered as a team. We had shared in the joys and misery. We suffered as one or another child went hitless, made a crucial error, or pitched poorly. We yelled, for each other, when a child came in 'throwing cheese' to retire the other team, or laced a key hit to drive in the needed runs. Thirty five times we won. Sixteen times we lost. Always we did it together.
The hitting coach has the boys make a cross where they stand, to make sure their feet are in the right place. He made a theological connection with life. We stand on the cross of Jesus in everything. Their cheer, "1-2-3, for Him" was meant to shape their minds and imaginations around the concept of Jesus' Lordship. That everything we think, say or do is from Him and for Him. As I shared with another dad, I hope those words were not an empty phrase, lost in the repetition. I have reason to believe they were not. The team was made up of good kids. Each boy was someone you could be proud of. They were well mannered and lots of fun. So were the parents. I really liked them all and got close to a few.
We were made up of a hodge podge of denominations, but everyone was serious about their faith. One boy was Jewish, he often asked me to lead the prayer. There was no screaming at umpires or embarassing behavior. I liked that.
Spending a weekend at a baseball tournament can lead you to lose track of time. You are sort of in an enclosed world, cut off from the wider world. All you know is what is going on in front of you (and how cold or hot you are). My weekends, of course, are different, because I have church services. Another place where the focus is different from 'daily life.'
Yesterday morning we baptized a baby. As I said the prayers over him I choked up. I am sure being so tired had a part to play. I get emotional when exhausted. Some of it was the realization, for a moment, of God's relationship with us. The sheer beauty of a baby. The wonders of a family and love. The sacrifices people make for their kids. The wonders of a gathered assembly, praying and praising, welcoming someone new to the family. I caught myself, regrouped emotionally and continued. But I could have been a water fountain if I hadn't.
Afterward, I realized, again (for the hundredth time) that God does me a kindness by leaving me at arms length. Whenever I get close I weep: Joy, awe, love, gratitude, wonder, all these and more, sweep me away into tears. God gives me distance so that I can function. So that I can love, honor and serve Him.
Saying good-byes yesterday was like that. There was a sadness in my heart. Some of these people I may never see again. Their will be tryouts for other teams. People move on. What we had this year will not be repeated. I am thankful to God for the beauty and joy. I am thankful to the kids and parents who made each weekend pleasant and fun, even when we lost. I am thankful to God for good-byes (including baptism: where we "die" with Christ so we can rise with Him). Each good-bye, each ending, is the transition point to a new beginning.
Last year I sat, a knot in my stomache, as my boy sat on the bench, his arm useless, watching his team, unable to give them the pitching and hitting they needed. This year in the last game, I got to watch my son, the heart of a lion, throwing pitch after pitch, even though worn out and drained. He made me proud. Last year I would not have even fantasized such a thing. I try to imagine what next year will be. Who knows? But all of it is a foretaste of the Kingdom. Every good-bye we make in Christ can be the door to a new life. I learned a lot yesterday. In church at a baptism and at the ball park. Loss and gain. Endings and New Beginnings. Community and love. Friendship. Hope. All of it a grace and gift. It is the sort of thing that makes you smile, that leads you to shed a tear, that makes you think about how great God is. 1...2...3... "For HIM!" That is what I will try to do today. Everything, for Him.
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