Monday, March 30, 2015

baseball as a metaphor for everything

(Like actual baseballs, not the game. Sorry Matt!)





Deconstructing a baseball is not a task for the faint of heart. You need patience, a comfy seat, and a blade of some sort. And, of course, an old baseball found from a walk in a park.

First you cut the red seams holding the whole thing together and tear apart the outer leather.

Two flat pieces of leather and shreds of red thread. That's not a ball.

Underneath you find a whole mess of sticky white string. You grab a section and pull. Unwind, unwind, unwind. You realize, for the first time, that this is probably going to take longer than you initially estimated. But you continue, wadding up the gluey thread on the table next to you as you turn the ball over and over again in your lap.

One mess of white thread. That's not a ball.

Much to your surprise/delight, the white thread gives way to a new fiber. A mostly gray yarn speckled with sprinkles of reds, greens, blues and golds. As you loop the yarn around your hand, you ponder the origins of the composite yarn and hope it comes from recycled sweaters. Unwind, unwind, unwind. You realize, for the second time, that this is definitely taking longer than you expected. The yarn gets more and more densely packed as the baseball shrinks before your eyes. Slowly, you see flashes of it - bits of pink rubber peaking out between the turns of the yarn.

One rather thick loop of gray yarn. That's not a ball.

You look around you at the mess you've made and you look at the little pink thing in your hands.

One pink rubber ball, much smaller than what you started with, but something that can not be stripped down any further. That's a ball.





In the quiet hours of the night, when Matt is fast asleep next to me and God and I are going over the day together, I've found myself remembering unwrapping baseballs. Both pre- and post-dismemberment, it's technically a ball. But it's covered with so much other sticky (slightly mildewy if we're being honest) not-ball stuff, that the end product is entirely unrecognizable from the starting point.

I push the metaphor further, because what else is 11:30 pm for if not pushing a metaphor anyway? I think about the two things I hold most dear - my faith and my marriage - and apply the baseball effect. How often am I more focused on the yarn and the string and the glue and the perfect little red stitches of life that I forget about the essence, the basis, the little pink ball that started it all?

In my faith, I often find myself focused on the thread and yarn. Putting the lion share of attention towards bulking up and filling out my faith, like finding a good devotional or figuring out which Sunday School class I should be teaching or memorizing my favorite psalms, rather than focusing on the core of it all. No amount of reading or prayer or singing songs with toddlers about about a man who climbed a tree (while all done with the best of intentions) will save us if we lose sight of reason behind it - that God loved us so much, despite our shortcomings, despite our continual disobedience, despite our every attempt to go against Him, that He became man and died the death we deserve so we can be with Him forever. Focusing on this, the fact that I am redeemed and loved more than I can fathom or deserve, makes the rest of the tangles and turns of faith fade into the background. Cling to Jesus. Cling to the little rubber ball of our faith. From Him all goodness and mercy, all grace and joy, flow.

In my marriage, I'm guilty of pouring way too much of my attention and energy into the leather and stitching - the day-to-day activities that hold our home together and make it pretty, the what's-for-dinner and the floor sweeping aspects of our lives - that I am prone to leave Matt neglected. I'll only half (or quarter, sorry babe) listen to the tale of his day when I'm really staring at the built-in shelves behind him thinking about succulents. See, decor and meal planning and other finishing touches, while important and/or essential to living, do not a marriage make. Marriage, at the core, is about love. It's waking up every day and making the decision to love someone. It's listening, truly listening, when fears and worries are confessed. It's providing a soft place to land, a dirty joke to raise his spirits, a kiss on the neck. It's giving and asking for grace even when it's hard. Focusing on the essence of our marriage means feeling my heart flutter when he looks at me; it means being more patient, more kind, and more gentle with my words; it means encouraging his dreams and letting him know that I believe in him and his abilities.

Spring has sprung and, much to the delight of my husband, baseball is starting back up. There will be home runs and NL East Championships mixed with lamentations about poor management and "we'll get 'em next year." But there will also be the reminder to peel back the layers on the things that are most important to me. Uncovering and holding fast to the little rubber ball in the middle of my faith and my marriage.

Everything else is just fluff.

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