One of my fondest memories of my Grandma Franck was during a trip that Charlene and I made to her house many years ago.  She served us ice cream and as she emptied the container, she placed it on the kitchen floor for our beagle Gordon to enjoy the remains.  We all smiled as we saw Gordon concentrate so hard, while licking out every last bit of ice cream and scooting the container across the floor.

Well, considering that this evening is baseball’s All-Star game, it seems only fitting that tonight I honor an All-Star in my life, Grandma Franck.

Eat up, Kirby.  This one is on Grandma Franck.  Somewhere Gordon the Beagle is smiling.

It was a muggy evening and our 9-year-old son Sam was wrapping up his baseball practice.  The coach told the team to run to the edge of the field and back.

I saw my opportunity to regain an ounce of glory.  I hightailed it out to the field in a full sprint.  One by one, I passed the kids.  To their amazement, an old man was really kicking it.  With one child to go, I could see victory.  They knew I had the eye of the tiger.  The old man made it back to the infield one stride ahead.

Exhausted, the kids had witnessed a special moment for it was most likely this old man’s final footrace championship.

Rest up boys, you will have another practice soon, but this old man is retiring with one final win.

Baseball has always provided me with a sense of comfort.  No matter if you win or lose, there is always tomorrow.  At the end of the year, there’s always the promise of next year.  When a playing career is finished, there is always coaching.  And after viewing baseball fields from an airplane window with their beautiful diamond arranged on a field of green, I am convinced that after I die, I’ll be watching games alongside the angels.

How fitting that baseball also granted my 7-year-old son Ben’s pitchball team with one final chance to end the season with a win.  One more chance to taste victory.  One more chance at comfort.  The “Consolation Championship.” Don’t ask, because it takes a while to explain, but our 2-9 team had one more chance at victory.  It did not really matter that we were playing for 11th Place out of 15 teams, we had a chance to end the year on a high note.

Ben continued his recent streak of solid hitting.  My 9-year-old son Sam continued to keep the younger kids in order, as my Bench Coach, just as he has so faithfully done all year.  My 12-year-old son Jacob was available to serve as Third Base Coach.  I operated the temperamental pitch machine.  All four of us were on the field.  A man and his boys all at play. I was a lucky man.  Somewhere an angel looked down and smiled.

The game was fitting for a championship.  Down to the last half inning, the winning run on third.  A little dribbler toward the pitcher.  The runner bolted toward home.  A throw.  A slide.  A foot crossing home.  Our team had won!  A victory that the boys could savor all off-season.

I was however the real winner.  For one sunny afternoon, I was given a chance to celebrate my boys.  Play a game we all love.  End as victors.  All of us had played a role.  All of us were happy.  I was indeed a winner.  Consolation Game or not, we were champions.  A family that was given a precious moment to bask in the warm summer sun.

A man with his greatest blessings, his precious boys, at the third base bag where the daring sprint home began.  May sunshine find you as well and surround you with blessings so great that your soul cannot help but smile.

One of the primary challenges involved in coaching a 7-year-old pitchball team is operating the pitch machine.  Less of a machine and more of an arm with a spring, this thing is a real pain in the butt.

It is constantly moving around.  Pitching inconsistently up, down, in, out, and all around.  You need to constantly adjust it.

I am fond of telling my players that the pitching machine does not have a heart.  Well, today it appeared to also lack a brain or any sentient qualities.  It started hitting players.  First one, then another, then as I loaded a ball into the machine’s arm, I paused.  I did not want another player to get plunked.

I walked in front of the machine and attempted to adjust it, when the beast sprung to life!  The arm flung forward and threw the ball full speed about 4 inches into the side of my belly.

That marks the first and only time that I was ever grateful to have put on a few pounds over the winter.  A little padding sure helped soften the blow.  Hit by a pitch, but at least it was in a shock absorbent area.

Life is a funny thing.  So many twists and turns.  One minute you are playing left field…

The next minute, you are up at-bat.  Add one ill timed foul ball and there you are in Urgent Care…

As a parent, you help stabilize the situation, get care, and then of course make idle distracting chit chat for hours until the doctor has finished.

One source of chit chat fodder, a speck of blood from my son’s eye on my shorts…

Pointing it out, I noted with glee, “Now, I have some of your DNA.”

My 12-year-old son asked, “What can you do with it?”

Teasing my wounded son, I noted, “Now, I can clone you.  Sure, it would be a 12 year younger version of you, but this time I could correct all of the mistakes I made the first time.”

Hmm, maybe carried the idle chit chat a little too far, Pops.  Next time, stop with the “stabilize the situation and get care.” Oh well, two out three (even during minor emergencies) ain’t bad.

PS – Young Jacob is doing just fine this evening, so no worries, and four stitches later, he has a pretty memorable story to tell.  Plus, I actually don’t know how to clone humans, so no worries on that end either.  Whew, that’s a relief!

Lately, I’ve had a hankering for sushi. Oddly, the Target by work has some really yummy sushi.  Don’t judge me, just accept it.  Don’t question, just enjoy.

Today, I happened to be by Target, so I picked up some sushi and headed back to work for lunch. Sitting at my desk, I eyed my tasty delight.  California Rolls were just waiting for me to dig in.  I held my soy sauce and (I know this isn’t orthodox, but it’s effective) bit the edge of the packet to tear off a corner.  Unfortunately, as I bit down, I inadvertently squeezed the tiny packet.  This caused a small eruption of soy sauce, as the packet unloaded in a significant gusher of salty soy sauce right up my sizable nose.

Shocked and salty. I felt the dark soy sauce slithering out of my nose and down over my upper lip.  A misplaced geyser of Chinese condiment.  A big nose internally soaked in soy.  Surprisingly clear nasal passages.  Not all bad.  Just watch your aim.

Keep your eyes open, you never know what you will learn.  Today for instance, three new nuggets of info found on the parking lot pavement.

Exhibit A…

Exhibit B…

Exhibit C…

Hard to read, but a tiger has striped fur and skin.

There you have it, folks, today you too have been educated by parking lot litter.  Straight from the pavement to the internet, now there’s an on ramp to the Information Super Highway, if ever I have seen one.

Today was pretty straightforward at work.  Some folks were taking the day off, I had a chance to get caught up on a few things, pretty straightforward.  That’s why my greatest challenge (for today) involved my shirt.

Yep, my shirt.  A brand new shirt.  A shirt that my wife bought me that looks really nice and I was looking forward to wearing.

I was getting dressed.  I selected my new shirt.  I removed the tags (with my teeth…  shhhh, don’t tell, I know it was the wrong thing to do).  I narrowly avoided embarrassment by looking in the mirror and seeing and then quickly removing the tiny “XL” sticker above the pocket, prior to heading to breakfast.  I was feeling pretty good, as I buttoned my new shirt, then I got to the sleeves.

First button on the sleeve, the one closest to the hand (i.e. the close-to-hand button, a.k.a. wrist button) went fine.  I traveled up my arm to the forearm button (?) and for the life of me, I could not get it to work.

I tried.  No good.  The button appeared fine.  The hole appeared fine.  I just could not get it to work.  Good Lord, were just my sausage fingers too large?  Was I just deficient in some way?  Was I broken?

I thought of asking my wife for help.  Too embarrassing.

I thought of continuing to try.  Too frustrating.

I thought of just leaving it undone.  Too much danger of my forearm falling out.

Then it struck me, roll up my sleeves.  Ha!  My greatest challenge on a slow day conquered.  No more concerns about my sausage fingers.  I was a sleeve defeating champion and that was enough for today.

This evening, we dragged out the portable fire pit and started a S’mores appropriate sized blaze in the backyard.  As I tended to the fire and dragged deck chairs to the pit’s edge, the others gathered up S’mores supplies.  We were a tad short on marshmallows, but we would get by.  S’mores would be enjoyed by all.

Soon however the characteristics of the marshmallows were called into question.  They all tasted fine, but the flavors were somewhat odd.  No plains.  Just mild fruit flavors.  Also, they were large and somewhat flat.  Sort of oval egg shaped.  Then the colors, all pastel.  Glancing at the bag, our suspicions were confirmed.  These were Easter themed marshmallows.  Maybe not how they were intended to be used, but effective nonetheless for Fourth of July campfire S’mores.

Easter marshmallows in the midst of summer.  A strange, but fitting way to celebrate the continuation of summertime happiness.  A resurrection of joy.  A rebirth of the fire pit.  A reminder from spring that there will be many more days of summer to come.

The sun was shining. I was in the midst of a three day holiday weekend.  My family was in good spirits.  A perfect beginning to the day.

Sitting in church with one of my sons beside me, I was struck by the scripture reading. The psalmist was hoping to continue praising God forever, even after death.  Doubt however nagged the author.

“Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness?”

Indeed, all that we are guaranteed is today. The rest is paradise.  A divine mystery.  Something to ponder, but well beyond our comprehension.  A reminder that today is special.  A gift.  A treasure.

I smiled. Certain of one thing.  Today, I have an opportunity to praise.  An opportunity to love.  An opportunity to show appreciation.  An opportunity to mirror God’s love and kindness.  I have been given so much.  A precious family.  A meaningful profession.  A degree of financial security.  Food for my belly.  Clothing for my back.  Health.  A roof over my head.  The many freedoms we hold dear.  With these gifts, I have an opportunity to share love.  Show my appreciation for all that has been given to me.

In a sense, I am giving thanks that will extend beyond my years. Once gone, love will continue.  The Lord has been faithful.  The Lord has been kind.  I smiled.  Love will live on.  Love will last.  In the eyes of my children.  In the warm smiles of my friends.  In the care of my family.  I am blessed and nothing can change that.  It is an eternal sign of wonder.  A beautiful gift that will forever remain in the endless ripples of time.