A few Septembers ago I found myself hanging out with members of the Toronto Blue Jays. The catcher and I were on a TV show together and after a few minutes of conversation, he said, “Why don’t you come and have a chapel with the team?” I gulped, then quickly agreed, not knowing that shortly after my speech to them, they would start a losing skid that would cost them the pennant.
Walking timidly through the hallowed halls of the Skydome, I kept asking myself, “What am I doing here? I’m the guy who struck out in the ninth inning.”
“We didn’t ask you to come and pitch, Phil,” the chaplain reminded me, “just tell stories.” Though small, the room where we met was brightly upholstered for families. Books, videos and children’s toys were stacked neatly, making it a welcome spot for the players’ wives and little ones during home games. One by one the players filed in, kindly shaking my hand and introducing themselves. My nerves were frazzled when I began. “I wanted to be like you guys—a professional athlete,” I confided. “And I probably could have made it except that I lacked … well, the body and the coordination.”
They laughed their approval.
Surrounded by millionaires, I spent 15 or 20 minutes telling them stories of my life. Of scoring the overtime goal in our championship hockey game. Into my own net. I talked of the joys of child-rearing and the richness of relationships. Tears rolled down the face of one famous pitcher as I described my wife’s battle with seizures and how the valley of shadows had drawn us closer to God. And to each other. I told them of my faith in Jesus, not a stuffy religion, but a vital relationship that impacts everything I do and say. It wasn’t very polished but they voiced their appreciation.
Afterwards, one of them, a fellow believer and now a friend, asked me how many children I have. I should have told him 11, but being a good Christian, I had to tell the truth. He disappeared for a few minutes, then returned carrying three autographed baseball bats—one for each of the kids. “Woah,” I said, “you won’t believe how much they’ll love these. My eldest son eats, sleeps and dreams baseball.”
The next day, after managing to get the bats aboard a commercial airliner (you should try this sometime) I carried them through our front door. For the kids, it was Christmas in September.
That night I fell asleep thinking about those bats. And I must admit I thought a time or two of their value, and it brought a greedy smile to my face.
Upon arriving home from work the next afternoon, I discovered our two boys in the backyard with the bats, hitting various hard objects (including each other), and smudging the autographs. I was not a happy father. I yelled a little at first, and when that didn’t work, I took to hollering. The boys seemed rather surprised at the level of my concern, but I informed them that the bats were worth a whole lot of money, that I could get on eBay right now and raffle them off to pay for their college tuitions, for Pete’s sake, but that I wouldn’t, that I would instead make them labour in an Alaska coal mine while their friends became doctors and lawyers and leaders of the free world. Or something like that. And as I lay in bed that night thinking about the situation, a thought came out of nowhere and smacked me right between the ears: “Phil, those bats are pieces of wood. They will one day burn. Your kids are eternal beings, aren’t they?” Pushing the warm covers away, I tiptoed down to the boys’ room and did what I’ve done numerous times since the birth of our first child: “I’m sorry, guys,” I said. “I was wrong.”
And I slept a little better without the greedy smile.
“Cast but a glance at riches,” said Solomon in Proverbs 23:4-5, “and they are gone, for they will surely sprout wings and fly off to the sky like an eagle.”
Bats crack. Cars rust. Paint peels. Appliances quit.
But people live forever.
