For Everything There is a Season

The sunlight of Monday is climbing down the tile roofed houses across the fairway from our kitchen. The whirring of the washing machine and the chirping of the dying battery on the fire alarm are the only sounds of the morning. McKenzie is sleeping peacefully, belly down, booty up. Lois also is catching up on much needed rest. Josh left for the farm a little while ago. Mike left for the hospital long before.

This weekend has been the living out in our lives of Solomon's words in Ecclesiastes 3.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven...

Saturday morning found us at the hospital visiting Josh's 93-year-old great-grandpa, Joe. Last Sunday, he fell at his home in Mesa and fractured his femur. He underwent a successful surgery on Tuesday, but has since been very unaware of what is going on around him. At first the doctors and nurses said that it was because of all the pain medication. That has been compounded now by their belief that he had a heart attack sometime after the surgery.

Every day, Josh's grandpa, Mike gets up around 4:30 am. He makes coffee and heads to the hospital. He stands by his dad's bedside all day, holding his hand, talking to him, and stopping him from pulling off all his monitors. Not complaining, he comes home about 9 pm. Exhaustion lines his face, but he doesn't say a word about it.

Mike's most powerful words are the ones not spoken. In his faithfulness and diligence in taking care of G.G. (great-grandpa), he lives out volumes. His actions tell of the selflessness and sacrificial care of his Lord, who gave His life for our sins. Mike's witness is powerful.

Although he could not come, Mike advised that my parents not cancel the annual 'Josh and Steph Going Away Party' that they had scheduled for Saturday. We proceeded as planned. My mom and sisters set a festive table, decked in Washington National's

colors: red, white, and blue. Even the

marched in unison to the theme. There were mounds of delicious food and the house echoed with laughter and chatter and children.

It was a joy to see dear ones and a blessing to enjoy fellowship

with them. After all of us had eaten and talked and eaten and talked some more, everyone gathered in a circle and prayed for Josh and McKenzie and I as we embark on this new season. Our family does this every year for us, but this time I was touched by the various facets of each prayer that was offered on our behalf. Each person prayed from their life experience and asked the Lord for what they saw as the important issues. Each complementing the other.

Josh's catcher, Quaid, prayed for Josh's arm and for his strength. My sister, Annemarie, who just got married and lives in Colorado Springs with her husband, prayed for good friends and godly women in my life. My mom prayed for Josh and I as parents. My dad pyed for success and perseverance and fortitude for Josh. Each petition was a sparkling facet of a diamond that they laid at the foot of the Throne that night. I was dazzled by its beauty and brilliance and amazed at how the Lord uses the prayers of His people to brighten the dark unknowns of our lives.

There are times in our life and in our day for everything. And sometimes, walking through the valley of the shadow of death and celebrating new beginnings come on the same day.

Game Time

Last night our friends Tim and Sarah hosted a BBQ in honor of Shaq's first game with the Phoenix Suns. Little Gracie was all dressed for the event with her Nash jersey. She and McKenzie provided plenty of off-court entertainment. It was a blessing to visit with good friends. 

Packing My Suitcase

With eleven days left until we head to Florida, I realized I had some packing to do. Not the kind you'd think of that's essential when leaving home for six months. Rather, the Lord showed me that I had some mental and spiritual sorting and organizing to do in order to be prepared and at peace for the 2008 season. 

As every baseball wife knows, there are as many uncertainties in baseball as there are players in the minor leagues. There are a million "what if" and "if then" and "how come" questions that bombard our minds. These little missiles of doubt have the ability to derail our day to day productivity and hinder us from accomplishing what needs to be done. 

While the same uncertainty is there for our husbands, they seem to handle it a different way. They prepare. They practice. They play. What happens, happens. That's all there is to it for them. But for us, it is a bit more complex. We don't have any control over what happens. We can't even get out there and help them throw the ball. And nothing infuriates a woman more than being out of control. 

Spring training and the preparation for it is probably one of the most uncertain times of the entire baseball season. And that's where we are right now. So on how in-control I feel on a scale of 1-10, I would rate it at about a 2. Maybe a 1.5. As I think and pray through this time though, the Holy Spirit is teaching me that despite what the world tells me and in contrast to my fleshly mindset that wants Stephanie's way 24/7, this is not a bad state to be in. For at this point, I am forced to fling myself into the loving arms of my Savior and rest in the shadow of His wings. 

Yesterday morning, I re-read the story in Genesis 22 of how the LORD commanded Abraham to sacrifice his only son Isaac, whom he loved more than life itself, as a burnt offering to Him. This must have torn Abraham's heart to the very core, but he didn't flinch. He took Isaac to the mountain the LORD had signified as the place of sacrifice and prepared to do as the LORD had said. 

Seconds before he was going to slay his beloved son, the angel of the LORD verbally spoke to Abraham and said, "Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to harm him, for now I know that you fear God, seeing you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me" (Gen. 22:12)

At that moment, Abraham looked up and saw a ram caught in the bushes nearby. The LORD had provided a sacrifice. 

Although the LORD is definitely not asking me to sacrifice my child, I do feel that He is asking me to sacrifice my desires, expectations, plans, and hopes for the baseball season to Him. To lay them down at His feet so that He may use them for His glory. In doing so, He is offering me His perfect peace and rest from worry, thus giving me mental freedom to do the laundry, and play with McKenzie, and laugh with Josh. In essence, He is asking me to rest and not concern myself with matters too great for me. He is asking me to let Him carry the suitcase.

I pray with David in Psalm 131:1-3:

O LORD, my heart is not lifted up; 

my eyes are not raised too high;

I do not occupy myself with things 

too great and too marvelous for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul,

liked a weaned child with its mother;

like a weaned child is my soul within me.  

(English Standard Version)  

Watching McKenzie sleep reminds me of this truth. 

LORD, give me grace to surrender. And please, take my suitcase.

Mudville?

As a girl, I loved nothing more than to bring my dad his volume of "Best Loved American Poems."  Curling up on a pile of pillows, I waited expectantly as he turned to the well-worn ballad. I could practically recite it, but it was far more delightful to hear the melody of his voice relate the timeless tale of American life, "Casey at the Bat," by Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

The tumbling torrent of words delighted me, bringing the roaring crowd to life. I snuggled deeper into the pillows, closing my eyes to picture the drama of Casey taking his stance in the batters' box. 

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

I couldn't believe it! What was that umpire thinking?

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

"Thank goodness. That was a close call."

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

I loved the sound of that word- "spheroid." It spun right off my tongue. No wonder Casey missed it. 

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

My dad paused. I was comfortably confident that Casey had smashed the ball out of the park. Dad continued...

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out. 

"What?" I yelled. "That's impossible. Casey couldn't have missed it, Dad. You read it wrong. Read it again." Dad laughed, his infectious, unfettered laugh and read the last two stanzas again. Nothing changed. Casey had still struck out. I was crushed. 

Time and again we repeated this ritual. Every time Dad read the poem, we went through the same routine. I had a love-hate relationship with Casey. I secretly hoped that maybe this time he would get with it and hit the ball. He didn't. 

Little did I know that twelve years down the road I would be cheering against Casey and his fellow batsmen. Instead, I would be cheering for the man throwing that leather-covered sphere, whom I am proud to call my husband. Being married to a pitcher changes one's perspective entirely. Now, I am on my feet, screaming my lungs out when my husband Josh retires a big hitter like Casey. 

Even though I am married to a pitcher, I still love the story of Casey and delight in reading it to our one year old daughter McKenzie, who cheerfully travels with me to all the little Mudvilles we visit in the minor leagues to watch her daddy play. 

This blog is dedicated to telling the story of those travels and the interesting, delightful, irritating, and facinating people and places we encounter along the way.  These people and places are the true wealth of minor league baseball- the color, the aroma, the flavor of America. I thank the Lord Jesus for the opportunity to live this life and look forward to sharing our adventures with you.