Scrambled eggs for dinner. This defines his summer, because the baseball practices are every day at five. So we rush to fill the water bottle and grab the cleats and gather our senses.
Perhaps breakfast should be our family meal.
Yesterday, it was off to the ball field and to watch him practice. I had been warned that teams from our town never amount to much. But this team has a special sort of “je ne sais quoi.” Together, they have the makings of something a little bit special.
I see him across the field, his familiar stance covering third base. All ten years of him rush through my mind as I see him standing there. This one was my “asked-for” son. Because the oldest–he needed a brother for adversity. And God Heard.
So I am watching as he learns how to play ball, but mostly as he learns how to do life. How to manage emotions. How to be a team player. How to be encouraging and accommodating and grace giving.
This is the value of baseball.
This is the gift of baseball. Years from now, I suppose it will not matter what the scoreboard shows. But it will matter what kind of man my son has become.
The bat cracks and the ball soars. My soul soars with it.
[This post is dedicated to my friend Angie who knows the heart of a boy-mama.]