Two weeks ago, my neighbor was excited. He just received his World Series ring. Jerry Martin played pro baseball then turned batting coach for the Phillies. This past season, he was a base coach for the Phillies. If you follow baseball, then you know that the Philadelphia Phillies defeated the Tampa Bay Rays for the 2008 World Series. Jerry’s ring is beautifully gaudy, if that is possible. It’s HUGE. Three and one-half carats worth of diamonds. I am very excited for my neighbor.
Being like any normal boy I grew up loving baseball. I knew the players and the teams. I was always excited when the World Series came around. When I was about 12-years-old I saw my first professional baseball game. We traveled to Atlanta to see the Braves play the L.A. Dodgers. I saw Hall of Famer Sandy Koufax pitch for L.A. Amazing! I remember it all.
Okay. I’m going to share with you the most fearful moment of my life…
Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be 55-years-old. Every year since my 12th birthday, the week following my birthday reminds me of the most fearful moment of my life.
As a kid, I was a very average athlete. I was an average wrestler on my high school team. I was an average center for our city club basketball team (we did finish 2nd in the state.) But what I really loved was baseball. I played 3rd base in little league. I was an average ball handler. But one thing I could do well was hit the ball.
It was my last year in little league. I was 12-years-old and in the 6th grade. We played at Armstrong City Park in High Point, NC. It was a great field. Our outfield fence seemed unreachable. Homeruns were very rare at our field. If you got a homerun, it was usually inside the park. But I was determined to do it. I was determined to slam one out of the park.
My dad was pretty sick by this point. I didn’t know he had cancer, much less that he might die. Back in those days parents felt that they were protecting their child by not burdening them with tough information. (I found out my dad had cancer from a neighborhood kid… I beat him up for saying such a thing.)
All I knew was my dad was too sick to come to my games. I was determined to do one thing for my dad… hit a homerun. I knew that would make him happy. After all, he taught me to catch… to run… to throw… and to hit a baseball.
It was a Thursday night. We were playing well. I was in my usual rotation spot as clean-up batter. I didn’t feel anything special when I got to the plate. I just remember swinging and connecting. There was a brief moment of “could this be it?” I watched the ball head out of the park. WOW! It was an awesome feeling. It was hard to contain my smile while rounding the bases. My older sister, Donna, made fun of my attempt to hide that smile. It was awesome. Sweet victory!
Normally after a winning game, we headed to the ice cream parlor… coach’s treat. And if you hit a homerun, double treat… you got a milk shake! Big deal for a little leaguer!
But on this night, the earned milk shake was the last thing on my mind. All I could think of was getting to the hospital to talk to my dad and tell him about my homerun.
At my insistence, my mom took me to the hospital. It was probably 9:00 at night. We went into his room. It was dark except for a dim light above the bed. Dad was turned onto his side facing the door. He had his covers pulled up to his chest. He seemed peaceful. He appeared smaller for some reason. As I expected, he was sleeping. He was actually in a coma, but I didn’t know what a coma was. All I understood was that he had to sleep a lot.
I walked over to his bed in my dirty uniform. I had long passed the day of having to self-impose dirt onto my uniform. If a player didn’t have enough dirt on his uniform, any respectable little leaguer would rub dirt into his uniform (while no one is looking of course). You didn’t want to have to explain why your uniform was so clean after a game. I admit I had a few moments of respectability during my first year of little league.
With my dirty uniform, hat and glove, I decided not to wait for my Dad to wake up. I leaned down, put my elbows on his bed and got really close to his ear. I quietly said, “Hey Dad, I finally hit that homerun for you.” Now I don’t know if it really happened, but as far as I am concerned, I saw a small smile appear on his face. I will never forget that smile. It was burned into my mind and my heart. It was a great feeling. That smile would become very important to me.
Little did I know that it would be the last words I would ever speak to my Dad.
Two days later, we were at my Dad’s parents. It was late Saturday evening. Everyone was at the hospital except an aunt, my little brother and me. My Dad’s 18-year-old brother, Gary walked in. I immediately saw that his eyes were red. Had he been crying? He wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Then I heard my Dad’s mom crying. That was the first time I ever heard her cry. (She just had her centenarian birthday this past February.)
I was still clueless.
My pastor, Jim Pharr walked in with my Mom. “What is he doing here?” I wondered. “Why is everyone so different?” Someone got a wet wash cloth to put on my grandmother’s forehead. She kept saying “My head hurts… my head hurts so bad.” I thought, “Maybe that’s why everyone is sad. Grandmother is sick.”
Then my 8-year-old brother, Elliott walked straight up to me and said “Dad died.”
What? Did I hear right? He must be wrong. How could two words hurt so much? I looked at my Mom. When I saw her face and our eyes met, I knew it was true. I just fell to the couch and cried. My sister tells me even today that I didn’t stop crying for two days. There was zero comfort to be found.
I remember Pastor Pharr placing his hand on my knee. He tried to say some words, but I wasn’t listening. Don’t get me wrong. I was glad he was there, but I would rather have had my Dad.
This was my most fearful moment… I just turned 12-years-old a week earlier. How was I going to make it through my teenage years without a Dad? Who was going to play catch with me? Who was going teach me all the “man stuff” I needed to know? Who was going to teach me how to drive a car? How to change the oil? Repair the lawn mower? Change a fuse? Who was going to teach me about girls? I was a lost, scared little boy who wanted his Dad. I never knew there could be so much fear.
But God was not going to abandon me. He gave me a wonderful promise. I’m not sure who told me about the passage… maybe it was Pastor Pharr. Whoever told me, it changed my life.
Sing praises to God and to his name! Sing loud praises to him who rides the clouds. His name is the Lord— rejoice in his presence! Father to the fatherless, defender of widows— this is God, whose dwelling is holy. Psalm 68:4-5 (NLT)
“Father to the fatherless.” I can honestly say that those four words took away my fear. I have remembered those words throughout my life. Every time I have a moment of fear and wish my Dad was near by, instead of asking God “Why me?” I say to God, “Thank you Lord for being my Dad. I have nothing to fear.”
Here is the key question for you. What verse, what promise does God have for you in your fear? Find it… memorize it… believe it! Then watch the fear melt away.
By the way… I went on to win the homerun crown for my league that summer of 1966. Other than a few games, I’ve never played baseball again.
