With the sun beating down and the grit of dirt clinging to my legs, I took a walk to the ladies room. All around me were the bedazzled shirts of proud mommas whose boys were suited up to take the field next. Even though we were new to this complex, much was the same. Baseball is baseball almost everywhere you go. Uniforms, concession stands, proud parents, overbearing parents, pot-bellied coaches, umpires. Sure, some fields are groomed better than others, but essentially it's three bases and a home plate with a bunch of boys that long to be the next great legend.
But that day was different for me. Things changed. And things are still changing.
I entered the bathroom stall like I often do at ballparks, and I started my ritual....
"Please, Lord, let him play hard. Let him do well. Let his light shine before men. And please, Lord, let him throw strikes and get hits.....Please?"
Ok, so I didn't always do this, but I've prayed many-a-prayer like it in bathroom stalls across the Mid-South, I will not lie.
This baseball season hadn't been the greatest for my red-headed, big-footed, boy-man. The very first practice game in March started him on a roller coaster ride of injury and recovery. He took the mound as the starting pitcher that day and then took himself out 15 pitches later. I still remember his slumped shoulders as he walked to the dugout. "This isn't good," I whispered to my husband, "...not good at all." Considering the regular season was less than two weeks away, we needed to get him checked out. Sure enough, he had a pretty serious shoulder injury. He had felt it from the first pitch but had tried to push through. We listened as the specialist told him he would need at least eight weeks of complete rest and then probably four more weeks of slow rehab. To him, it might as well have been the end of the world. Twelve weeks was almost his whole season.
That night I glanced into his room and saw him on the floor, on his knees. It broke my heart to know he was struggling with such a blow to his season. But knowing that he knew where to turn in difficulty was nothing short of a victory for this momma.
He rested for those weeks, and was allowed to contribute to his team only as an extra hitter. He started the rehab process and began to learn the value of strength training and making sure all his muscles are strong, not just the throwing ones. Once he was released to play the field (not to pitch), he had to earn his place back. It didn't happen overnight. He battled the mental aspect of an injury and it affected his game. He had more errors in the first two weeks back than he had in the last two seasons.
All the while, I would make my way to a bathroom stall and pray something like this...
"Please, Lord, let him not make any errors. Please let his arm recover. Please let him hit a home run to make up for his arm."
Don't judge.
Errors continued to lessen, a few home runs were hit, and his arm began to heal. And this momma continued to pray.
But my prayers began to change.
Somewhere in a bathroom stall west of St. Louis, the Lord dealt with me. And this is what He said,...
"Dana, your prayers aren't wrong, but they aren't best. You're asking for home runs and strikeouts when you should be asking me to do whatever it takes to help him know and love and serve Me. "
Ummm...it's just baseball, Lord. Take it easy.
No, no it's not just baseball.
It was as crystal clear as the sky that lingered over the fields that day. I had simply been praying that my son was successful. God was now calling for a change in my heart. Maybe, just maybe, the home run that I selfishly prayed for might lead to a prideful attitude in my son. Maybe those strikes he throws make him think more highly of himself that he ought. Maybe God has plans for him to be something other than a baseball player one day (ya think?) and He needs to use a loss or an error to show my son something greater than a perfect game ever could. Maybe God allowed an injury to show my son more of Himself.
Do I want perfect games and home runs and low ERAs or do I want a son who whole-heartedly seeks after the Savior? That was the question I faced in the Ozzie Smith Complex bathroom.
From that day forward, my selfish prayers changed. I began praying for God's perfect will, even if it meant something other than success. Occasionally I would slip in something like, "and if it wouldn't hurt your ultimate plan, could he please go 3-3 today?" But I digress.
We had two tournaments left in the year when I had my experience in the bathroom. There were several times in the heat of the games, that I would start to offer up the typical prayers I was accustomed to praying. Each time, I forced myself to think in longer terms. I began to think of God's greater plan and not just in the now of 13-year-old baseball.
This doesn't mean I don't want to see my children successful. But I've had to stop and think about what that means. If having success results in them thinking more of themselves than the Lord Jesus Christ, then I don't want it. If failure means them relying on and turning to Him, then bring it. Don't for one minute assume that watching them fail or hurt is easy. It's down right awful. I know firsthand.
The very last tournament of our year was the World Series in Gulf Shores, Alabama. Our little scrappy team played hard. My son was healthy and had a full weekend of pitching on his mind. He did well at the plate the first few games and was gearing up to take the mound during bracket play. I made my trek to the bathroom and humbly prayed for God's perfect will.
"Lord, I'm asking for strikeouts because your Word says 'you have not because you ask not' and I don't wanna be guilty of that in this situation (again, don't judge), but I ultimately want your perfect will. Let him be successful on the mound if that would be best in his relationship and walk with you."
Swallow. Hope I mean it. Flush the toilet. Let's go.
Well...... It was awful. He couldn't find the strike zone. He was all over the place. Normally he can bring it. Normally he can work out the kinks. Not that day. He single-handedly worked our little team into a hole we could not dig out of. The coaches kept thinking he would find his rhythym, but bless his boy heart, he. could. not.
He was devastated. He was embarrassed. He tucked his tail between his legs and we hit the long road home. And yet, amazingly, his momma was fine. Normally this is where I would've smiled our way hurriedly out of the park and hoped no one saw that the number on the back of my shirt matched his. Not this time. The bathroom revelation was changing me. I didn't love watching him fail one sweet bit, but I was seeing a bigger picture unfold. Either I desire God's perfect will or I don't. Which is it? Either I desire children who know and serve the Lord at all costs, or I don't.
This way of thinking still doesn't come naturally. I'd be lying if I said it did. But each time I choose to trust God's plan OVER my own, it gets easier. I don't want to see children my fail, or hurt, or get injured, or be embarrassed. But if it leads them to Christ, then I choose to accept it as necessary.
Hard, but necessary.
May we all have more bathroom revelations!
Play BALL!
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