On Thursday night I had just settled into
bed for a long-awaited night’s sleep (I know, sounds like The Night Before Christmas, right?). I had finally reached that state of
grogginess where continuing any further attempts at my usual pre-sleep
crossword puzzle would have proven futile.
I had just reached over and turned the light out, when a raucous chorus
of Take Me Out To The Ball Game led
by Donald Duck, pierced the bedroom.
Recognizing that unmistakable melody as my cell phone ring, I grabbed
for it quickly. See, those late-night
phone calls are not ones you eagerly anticipate as a pastor. Most of the time it involves some emergency
or another that necessitates either a quick trip to the emergency room or a
long telephone counseling session.
Struggling to focus on the caller ID, I
realized the second greatest fear of a late-night call: when the caller is one
of your kids. That just amps up the
intensity another notch or two. Which
grandkid is sick? Why did they call my
phone instead of Chris’? Is it a Waco
call? Waco takes four hours to get to,
so what do we absolutely need to pack?
No, wait. This one is just LaMarque. We can get there in ten or fifteen minutes
and not have to pack at all. Chris will
want to go. Better get her up first. I was almost exhausted with planning before I
ever said hello.
I finally managed to locate the swipe bar
at the bottom of the screen, and just before I made the tell-tale left-to-right
move that would release whatever news this was upon my consciousness, I happened
to glance upward just a little bit. And I
saw what time it was. 10:10. Wait. I
just came to bed about fifteen minutes ago.
This doesn’t really count as a late-night emergency call at all. This is more of an old-coot-went-to-bed-before
ten, ha-ha-ha, you’re-old call. That
changed everything. As my fingers
finally made the swipe, I gathered myself together. Can’t let them know that just moments before I
was in a veritable stupor. There. Ready.
Almoist before my “Hello” was out of my
mouth, the voice of my oldest grandson Jachin exploded from the receiver. “Hey, DadDad!
I got a hit!” And I was
awake. Fully. This was great news. You gotta understand. Jachin had just broken out of his first
Little League hitting slump. And this wasn’t
one of those dribblers that the catcher threw over the first baseman’s
head. He’s left-handed and he smacked
one into right field. That means he
swung with confidence and pulled the ball.
Talk about a little grandparently pride.
And while I was basking in that news, he almost slipped another one past
me. Seems he also got to pitch for the
first time. Wait. First hit AND first pitching opportunity? And he did pretty well on the mound. No, there’s more. AND they won the game 14-2. It was enough to make a doddering old,
baseball-loving DadDad’s head spin. I
assured him that I was really proud of him.
Of course I knew he could do it all along. And I made sure that Nana heard all the
details that I could remember as soon as I hung up. Not the sort of news that you keep to
yourself.
I felt really special to get that
call. At first I thought that it just
shows how little it takes to make me happy these days. But no.
There’s nothing little about
your first hit and your first chance to pitch.
That was a BIG deal. Thanks, Jachin,
for the late-night (that wasn’t so late after all) phone call. Thanks for letting me share in your
excitement.
Isaiah
49:13 says, “Shout for joy, O
heavens; rejoice, O earth; burst into song, O mountains! For the Lord
comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones.”
Father, thank you for the little
pleasure of a baseball good news phone call.
Kind of charges me up to receive a boatload of late-night emergency
calls now. Amen.
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