The Saturday Journal: Get in the Game

She was reliving the story of her daughter’s recent volleyball match. They were so close to winning, she explained. But then–they didn’t. I know the win will come–hopefully soon. Their effort though…I’m just not sure.

I’m listening to podcasts a lot now. It’s a kind of learning and storytelling all in one and I like that. A few days ago I was listening to this one particular podcast, Everything Happens and the host Kate Bowler was interviewing Jenna Bush Hager. Through emotion and tears Jenna was talking about her late grandfather, George H.W. Bush. Jenna shared he was close to the end of his life and he couldn’t talk very loud. She said, ‘I was visiting one day and he whispered for me to come closer. And then he said, Jenna, “get in the game.”

Jenna went on to tell the story of a recent family vacation and her children wanted to go swimming in the pool. And then she said, ‘I could hear my grandfather saying, Jenna, get in the game.’ And she did. Plunging ahead–swimming with her children in the cold rain.

My oldest grandson was talking about one of the things he wanted to do when he grew up the other day and for the life of me I can’t remember his exact words of what he wanted to do. Maybe it was because of what he asked that left me gasping for air–his question–it was a thought-provoking gut punch–

‘Granna, if I decide to do this and you’re still alive, will you help me and support me?’

I answered slowly with an exclamation point, ‘I sure will! You bet I will!’

There’s a grassy field that adjoins the house where my grandparents used to live and during my childhood it served as the friendly neighborhood baseball field in the warm months and an occasional football field as the weather got colder. I can say the same for the front yard of the home where I grew up. Some of the same trees still stand with markings of first, second, and third. And home was always closest to the front door–as it should be. A wooden car shed stood on the upper gravel driveway and a rusty basketball goal with a weather-worn net was nailed to the frame of the shed.

Whatever the game of choice on any given day–my brothers and I were ready–so was my Daddy. And let me just say this–my Daddy was a gifted and talented baseball and softball player. He was a lefty and had a cannon for an arm. And most of the time when he played baseball with us–he played barefoot and there was no mercy given. His basketball playing skills–well, we compared them to the likes of a “bull-in-a-china-shop”. Yelling foul against him was as useless as calling a cat to come and take a warm bath–a waste of breath.

I recall this one time and we were in a heated game of baseball out in my grandparents' field. There were probably six or seven kids and my Daddy was right there in the middle of the competition. He was playing first base and I hit a line drive over third base for a single. Next up to bat was my younger brother who hit a grounder down first base line. Like any good first baseman, he touched the base for the first out and then sent the ball sailing to my other brother who was playing second. Now, remember, he had a cannon for an arm. But what he didn’t plan on was me running slightly out of the baseline and that ball, I’m certain, was traveling at least seventy miles per hour, when it hit me square in the back–between my shoulder blades. I was down for the count struggling to catch my breath. Of course me and all the other kids thought I was dying. I wasn’t. And my Daddy helped me up off the ground while wearing a slight grin and said, ‘You’ll be okay. Let’s finish this game. And that was a double play–you’re out.’

It’s been over a year now since I first met her. And the last time I saw her–the homeless lady–she was sitting outside a neighborhood market. I had just bought two large pizzas at the pizza place nearby, so I pulled into the parking lot of the market and offered her some pizza. She was wearing worn gloves scarred with holes cupping a warm cup of coffee. She said no, and me–I was almost to the point of forcing her to take the pizza. Her eyes met mine in silence and she wasn’t looking away and neither was I. Both of us–a little stubborn. And she still said no. She did accept the gift of a small bag of coins–all the cash I had at the time. I could be her–she could be me–and we are both made in the image of God. I need to be reminded of that more.

My grandson’s words have lingered long. It was the first time ever he’d acknowledged to me that he knew my days are somewhat shorter than they were yesterday. And truthfully, it shook me up a little. Not the dread of dying–there are many ways we allow ourselves to die, long before going to the grave.

And I raise my hand–guilty--guilty on many occasions. Guilty of sitting on the edge–not getting in the game–observing–scared–procrastinating, looking the other way, and sadly, using the excuse of later–maybe next time or I’m too busy right now.

The ebbing of time affects us all and some moments only come around once. And how we handle those moments–the effort we put into those moments–whether we stay down, get back up, or jump in–the choices are entirely ours to make.

A humble thank you for reading The Saturday Journal. My prayer is to share The Saturday Journal every Saturday or at least bi-weekly--but always on Saturdays. If you would like to have The Saturday Journal come to your email box, please subscribe to A Beautiful Grace blog and newsletter at http://www.tathelmiller.com

All photos @copyright Tathel Miller, unless otherwise credited to another photographer.