Dirt

Dirt

The creek of the gate sends a chill up my spine; mixed with the crunch of the gravel beneath my feet, I’m taken back.  

It’s my first game. 

I lace up my cleats, straighten my CBA, orange ball cap and step out onto the tee ball field.  

The smells engage my senses; dirt, freshly mowed grass, sweat (it was Louisiana after all…and no matter who you were, it was summer and you were sweating…)

I was in right field.  And at some point between picking the dandelions and counting the ant hills I hear the crack of the bat at home plate.  The ball was coming straight at me.  It zipped on by (don’t be too judgmental…I was 6 and all too interested in how many bugs I could catch in one inning) and I began to chase after it.  The crowd began to chant my name as I ran towards the ball in hopes of throwing out the runner by the time she got to second base.  Upon hearing my name from the stands, my adrenaline sped through my veins.  I was in love.  The thrill of the chase.  The race against time as I sought to get the out.  

I don’t remember if I ever got the out.  I guess that point of the story doesn’t really matter.  

I knew that I had fallen in love with the game and for the next 13 or so years that first love would consume my summers.  

Every game felt like a championship game to me.  Which, at times, came at a cost.  I wanted so badly to succeed and be the best.  I spent hours practicing my swing, lead offs, the perfect throwing technique and spent countless hours at the batting range.  

Even with all of the practicing I did, I still struck out on occasion, missed a grounder or two, and let my depth perception get the worst of me and miss a pop fly, losing the game for my team. 

I couldn’t be the best.  I failed.  I let the grief of failing take over…but not for long...just one evening…that’s all the time I would allow it.  The next day I would wake up, lace up and get back out on the field where I would strive to become better.  

If I had let those little failures (even though they felt pretty big at the time) speak into my life, I would have let them own me.  I didn’t always get this right, but thanks to my supportive parents, friends and coaches, they always challenged me to keep working at the game that I loved.  

Life is not so dissimilar.  Sometimes, it not so easy to look back at the failures, hardships, difficult seasons of our lives.   It’s not comfortable.  It’s not pretty.  And it’s not fun.  But if we don’t, on occasion, look back on our failures (or even the wounds from beyond ourselves) how can we ever expect to learn from them?

Life isn’t always pretty.  It isn’t always glamorous.  Sometimes we bleed.  

But, when it isn't pretty or glamorous, we can make our sad trees into happy trees (thank you Bob Ross).  

We need to learn how to take a step back and remember where we've come from.  To remember the trials we have faced in the difficult seasons of life.  To reflect, learn and grow.  To continue to move forward in our walks.

There is no end without first a beginning.  There is no trail that doesn't start with a trail head.  No story without an author.  

Sometimes we fail and sometimes we fall.  But never forget that there IS a God who cares, who loves, who holds us, molds us and can turn our messes into happy trees on the canvasses of our lives.