The Relationship Between Trek and Baseball

I have been working on several new posts, so soon there will be a flood of them. Before I move all.on,though, I found this  and decided it belongs here with the stuff about baseb.

I wrote this the night that we stayed at Muddy Gap in our fancy little hotel, right after we went through the visitor's center at Martins' Cove.

Blog  June 27, 2014  muddy gap, Wyo 530 am

Well, I am here in Wyoming, about 12 miles or so south of the Martins Cove Visitor’s Center, because I came to pick Caleb up from Trek.  He, of course, has a baseball tournament this weekend.   Yesterday I asked myself why the heck I would drive 12 hours for a baseball tournament; now that the day is here and I was doing the driving it seemed as though the tournament was the end goal.  And then I remembered:  I am doing this because I love my son and He loves Heavenly Father. Period.  Sometimes his age and limited vision make him love baseball more.  And when one watches him and sees how he spends his time, sports certainly trump the gospel.  But he’s my son, and I know him, and I watch him, and I know—because of his actions and because of the words he says and mostly because of the words he does not say—I  know that he loves Heavenly Father as much  as he loves baseball, and that ultimately, unless Satan plays a horrible terrible trick on us, he will choose Heavenly Father. 

So I drive twelve hours. 

First, though, I suggest and encourage him to miss his baseball tournament.  And he thinks I have suggested that he stop breathing.

I also talk to the tournament organizers—a full year in advance—and let them know that Caleb has a special event this week.  (They are also his coaches, and they usually feel like they need his contribution every moment, and I hope that they will use those feelings to our advantage and plan around him.  But a year is a long time, and schedules fall as they do, and trek and the tournament are scheduled for the same exact days.

So I drive twelve hours.  And my son doesn’t  complain one bit about trek, and he seems glad to go.  He does wonder if he will meet any cute girls.  He does state, a little jokingly, and while flexing his great big biceps, that he knows he can single-handedly pull his handcart through any obstacle.( He is joking, but he is a little over-confident, and he is proud of his biceps. ) He doesn’t whine one bit about waking up at 2:45 a.m. the morning he has to leave. He doesn’t whine about the 17 lb. weight limit for personal items.  (Why should he?  Only girls do that.) And so I know that he’s glad to go. 

He does ask one question:  Are you sure I will make it back for my game?  Should you come earlier?  I reassure him.  I hug him good-bye.  For two days we pray for his safety, and every time we do, I silently add my own prayer, without even formulating all of the words completely: Let him have a great experience.  Let him love God. Let him love trek.

You see, baseball’s always there, waiting, beckoning.   And as Kevin Costner stated in Field of Dreams: Baseball’s not heaven.  It’s close, but it’s not.  The Gospel is heaven. 

So I drive twelve hours.