It’s Sunday afternoon at the softball park. My granddaughter, Laney, is playing her umpteenth game of the summer. Now its tournament time, which means we play a game, sit a game, etc. It’s a luxury really, the free time it affords; I’m writing this article to redeem the time.
The PA speaker crackles, “Now up to bat, # 10, Laney Grubb.”
Excuse me, I’ll be right back.
She works through her at-bat-ritual; left foot grinds into the dust at the front of the batters’ box; her right foot trails just outside the box… one foot in, one foot out. She takes two, now three hard swings at imagined pitches. Without looking his way, she lifts her right hand toward the umpire, the universal signal to request a short time out while she settles into the box. He raises an impatient palm to the pitcher. Now she has both feet planted as she scratches at the plate with the head of the bat. Now she’s squatting like a cat about to pounce on a bird, tail twitching as she narrows her focus to the pitcher’s hand. The umpire points toward the mound and Laney cocks the bat to lock and load. The bat itself seems to take on a life of its own, waggling in the air like an agitated cobra.
The first pitch is a call. Strike one. I groan, but Laney seems unfazed; she steps from the batter’s box and turns to her coach, a fit young man who carries himself like an athlete. He’s also nonplused in his box at third, showing no reaction; his arms folded across his chest, simply nods in her direction as though to say, “Get in there and hit the ball.”
The pitcher spins the ball nervously in her bare hand, patting her leg with her glove. She winds and delivers with a grunt, the glove cracks against her leg as she blisters the ball toward the plate. Laney uncoils, throwing her fists forward; the bat follows. There’s a sound in girls’ softball that is like none other, when aluminum squarely meets leather, reversing the balls direction in a split second. Boink! It’s a hard drive to left center! I jump to my feet and see she has just smoked it over the fielders’ heads! The arc of the ball demands my attention for the moment. Then I see Laney rounding second at full gallop, her focus on the third base coach. The outfielder slings the ball to the cutoff infielder, who spins and throws a rifle shot toward home. The third base coach’s left arm is circling his upper body like a giant propeller, his right arm spastically pointing her home…
It’s incredible, really, how time—the most daunting force of our existence—seems to relinquish its merciless march only to cooperate in moments like these. It slows down, barely perceivable at first but then surreally.
Everyone present is hanging on the thrill of this moment. The moment itself seems to relish the attention, slowing to enjoy the spotlight. Both dug outs erupt! One wills the ball to win its drag race against the sprinting runner while the other screams in unison, “Get down, Laney!”
The forces collide and dust plumes from home plate. The umpire is the first to move, craning his neck to see the ball. Time and reality snap back into the present as he throws both arms straight out to his side and shouts, “Safe!”
Grandma’s screaming and dancing; Mom is snapping pictures and Dad—well, Dad is sitting quietly in his lawn chair. I’m sitting behind him and I can feel the pride radiating off the back of his head, his ears strobe bright red, the arm caps on his chair distort from his vise-like grip. And me…Grandpa? Well, I’ve returned to writing this article.
Much is written about seizing moments like these; encouraging us to relish the good things in our lives. But perhaps not enough attention is given to exactly who is responsible for the good things that we relish. The Bible gently reminds us,
“Every desirable and beneficial gift comes out of heaven. The gifts are rivers of light cascading down from the Father of Light. There is nothing deceitful in God, nothing two-faced, nothing fickle.” James 1:17 The Message
Good moments aren’t the evidence of a good life. Good moments are the evidence of a good God.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.