It all started on a rainy Saturday afternoon this spring. The chores were finished and my husband and I had a little downtime, so we decided to watch some Red Sox baseball.
I’m not too much of a sports fan, and even less of an athlete, but I do love baseball. Growing up I watched the Red Sox games all the time with my father. It’s the only sport that I actually know my way around. All my memories of baseball are happy and very, very special — because they’re connected to my dad.
This was an away game, and it was a beautiful sunny day in the city where the Sox were playing. My husband got settled and after I finished up what I was doing, I joined him in our den.
I walked into the room and as I sat down I heard the announcer shouting: “That ball is hit with a lot of power and it’s flying! The wind is carrying it — way out to left field. It’s going, it’s going … Gone!”
The batter had walloped a home run. We were thrilled, because it was a batter from our team, our beloved team, the Boston Red Sox. Exciting! We settled down and watched the rest of the game, and happily our team won.
The next game on TV was just a couple nights later. This time the Red Sox were home, playing from Fenway Park in Boston. The game started at 9 o’clock, and when I got home from my ceramics class a little after nine, I joined my husband in the den. I settled into my chair and the next batter came up, one who had been struggling a bit with his batting average so far this season. The batter swung at a pitch and missed. Strike one.
“Next one’s a ball,” I said.
My husband looked at me, one eyebrow raised.
The pitcher threw again and the batter connected with it. It was a loud “crack,” and the crowd went wild. “A grand slam,” the announcer yelled.
“That’s the second time it happened,” my husband said.
“You walked into the room and the minute you got here the batter hit a home run.”
“Oh, that’s just a coincidence,” I laughed.
But it kept happening. Time and time again I would walk into the room and the minute I got there, the batter would hit a home run. This has been going on all summer.
Something tells me that when the ball goes flying through the air across the sky to the other end of the stadium, a little bit of my spirit goes with it. No doubt it’s due to the sparkling, glittering memories filled with love for my father.
When I prayed on it, thankful for this connection, I was blessed with an insight from the Holy Spirit: Aren’t we all able to inspire a home run, in one way or another, when we walk into a room? A word of kindness, a smile, a thoughtful gesture? We might not all be athletes, but we all know how to share the Spirit. And all my life, that’s what I saw and felt my father doing … and he is still doing it now.
This is part of the series called “The Human Being Fully Alive” found here.