Failing into Grace
The Error That Changed Everything
In the 1960s, the Mets were terrible. Not just bad - - lovably, inventively, heartbreakingly terrible. And in the middle of all that losing, one fan kept the faith with a marker and a message. He was known as Sign Man, Karl Ehrhardt. Always seated in the box seats on the third base line at Shea Stadium, derby on his head and a folder full of signs at his feet. He brought 60 to every game, handpicked from a collection of 1,200, each ready for a moment. Some were clever, some were brutal, all were honest.
One of his signs read:
“To err is human. To forgive is a Mets fan.”
I remember seeing him when I was a kid. He was a legend; part cheerleader, part critic, part poet of the bleachers. And that sign? That one stuck with me.
Because baseball is a game of failure. Even the greats fail more than they succeed. Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs - - and struck out 1,330 times. Cy Young won 511 games - - and lost 316. That’s the rhythm of the game: try, fail, recover, repeat.
But not every error gets that kind of turnaround.
Sometimes the error becomes the moment - - the one you carry, the one who have to learn to live with. Just ask Bill Buckner.
Game 6. 1986 World Series. Red Sox vs. Mets. Bottom of the 10th. The ball trickles through Buckner’s legs at first base, and the Mets go on to win. That single play cost him years of peace. Boston needed a villain. Buckner, a solid player with a long career, became the face of failure. He stayed away from Fenway. The city stayed mad.
Until 2004.When the Red Sox finally won the World Series, fans held up a banner that read:
“Forgive Buckner.”
It took 18 years - - but grace caught up.
That’s the thing about errors. They don’t define the whole game. They’re part of it. Part of us. Not just on the field but in the living rooms and hospital rooms and quiet conversations that never quite go the way we hoped. We all make errors.
We speak too quickly, or not at all. We say things we wish we could take back, and leave other things unsaid until it's too late. We mess up relationships, drift from people we love, miss the mark as parents, partners, friends. There are divorces, estrangements, and phone calls we still haven’t returned. And sometimes we wear our errors like a jersey - - as if that one play, that one failure, is the whole story.
Grace remembers differently - - not to condemn, but to redeem. Its voice doesn’t shout; it whispers hope.
Grace is stubborn - - holding your hand through the long nights, offering a clean slate in the morning, and whispering, “You’re still welcome here,”
even after the mess. It’s not just forgiveness, it’s so much more. It’s restoration. A reminder that we are not the sum of our failures, but the beloved bearers of a story still unfolding.
Grace is God’s way of saying, “I see all of you — and I’m not going anywhere.”
Grace shows up not to excuse what happened, but to help you stand up again. It’s the banner in the crowd after 18 long years. It’s the walk-off home run you never saw coming. It doesn’t erase the past, but it refuses to let the worst thing be the last thing.
In The Dark Knight, Alfred says to Bruce Wayne, “Why do we fall? So, we can learn to pick ourselves up.”
That’s grace. Not the absence of failure but the courage to rise again, story still unfolding.
We all miss the grounder. We all make the wild throw. We all have those plays we’d rather forget. But grace doesn’t show up after perfection - it shows up in the middle of the mess.
Sometimes, the most sacred stories begin in failure. Often, the most unlikely altars are built right there - - in the rubble of regret, in the shadow of a mistake, in the space where grace rushes in.
And sometimes, the loudest cheer comes after the biggest mistake.
Just ask a Mets fan.
The road is never perfectly smooth. Not when you’re riding a bike, and not when you’re living a life. I love to ride. My Trek Domane road bike isn’t just a machine—it’s my sanctuary on two wheels. There’s something holy about the rhythm of pedaling: lungs filling, legs burning, tires humming on the pavement. On a good day, it feels like prayer in motion. The wind in my face becomes grace I can feel. Out there, the noise of the world fades, and what’s left is rhythm, movement, and presence. But let’s be honest: every ride comes with hazards. There are potholes that sneak up out of nowhere, big enough to swallow a small child—or at least rattle your fillings loose. There’s loose gravel that suddenly turns you into a circus act, wobbling and praying you stay upright. There are dogs who seem to believe it’s their sacred duty to chase cyclists, even when they have no real plan for what they’d do if they caught you. There are squirrels with a death wish, darting across the path like my front wheel is the finish line of their personal Olympics. And there are headwinds—those invisible walls of air that make you wonder if you accidentally signed up for a spin class called Despair on Wheels. And then there are the crashes. I know this one by heart. After a winter freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail when my wheels found an ice patch. I didn’t unclip quickly enough, and in a blink, my ankle snapped. Seventeen screws and plates later, I had the kind of X-rays that could stop a conversation. For a while, all that hardware held me together. But it also caused its own complications, so eventually it had to be removed. The scars remain, both visible and invisible—a reminder that sometimes the repairs leave their own marks. Still, the bone is stronger for having been broken. And here’s why I’m writing about all this now: I’m finally back on the road. Sjögren’s Disease makes riding harder than it used to be—my body doesn’t always cooperate the way I want it to. But I’ve missed it more than I can put into words. There’s nothing like that moment when I swing a leg over, settle in, and hear the sharp click of my shoes clipping into the pedals. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. That little snap always makes me smile, because it means I’m moving again. It means the ride is starting, no matter what the road holds. For me, the bike has become an Unlikely Altar. Not a marble table in a sanctuary, but a frame on two wheels, carrying me down cracked asphalt and winding trails. Each ride is an offering of breath and sweat, joy and pain. The sound of clipping in feels almost sacramental, like lighting a candle or whispering a prayer. Even the hazards—the potholes, the gravel, the crashes, the scars—become part of that altar. They remind me that God shows up not only in smooth pavement, but in the rough patches too. Cyclists learn quickly: hazards are part of the ride. You can’t avoid them all, but you can learn how to face them. And the more I’ve ridden, the more I’ve realized that life works the same way. We all face hazards that throw us off balance: setbacks that jar us, seasons of uncertainty where nothing feels stable, full-on wrecks that leave us scarred, and invisible headwinds that sap our strength. Here’s the truth that keeps coming back to me: hazards don’t mean the ride is ruined. They mean the ride is real. That’s what this series is about. Over the next few weeks, I want to share what the road has taught me about life: Potholes and Setbacks – the jolts that come out of nowhere. Gravel and Uncertainty – when you have to slow down and find your balance. Crashes, Scars, and Resurrection – the wrecks that leave you marked, but not finished. Headwinds and Grace – the invisible resistance that tests your strength and teaches dependence. Cycling strips things down to the essentials. You can’t control the road, the wind, or the dog with a bad attitude. All you can do is keep your balance, keep your eyes ahead, and keep pedaling. Life’s the same way. Smooth pavement is nice, but it’s the hazards that teach us, shape us, and remind us we’re still moving forward. So clip in, take a deep breath, and join me. The road ahead won’t be perfect—but it will be full of grace, laughter, and maybe even a few good stories about dodging squirrels.
A couple of weeks ago I attended a Jewish wedding. The music was lively, the laughter contagious. But what caught my attention first wasn’t the dancing or the glass. It was the chuppah—the canopy under which the couple stands. Four simple poles, cloth stretched above, open on all sides. The chuppah isn’t just there for decoration. It is one of the most important symbols of the ceremony. It recalls the story of the Exodus, when a cloud led God’s people by day and fire by night. The Hebrew word shekinah describes that presence—not just glory, but the very dwelling of God among the people. Standing under the canopy, the couple is reminded that they are not alone in this covenant. Their love is sheltered, covered, surrounded . But the canopy carries more meaning still. Some rabbis say its four open sides recall Abraham’s tent; a home always open to strangers. In that sense, the chuppah is about hospitality—marriage as a space of welcome, a household where others are received. Others say it represents the sky itself, stretched above the couple like creation’s ceiling. Either way, the chuppah whispers that love is not private property. It is held within something larger, and it is meant to spill outward in welcome. And if the canopy over their heads spoke volumes, so did the calendar on which the day was marked. John tells us the wedding at Cana happened on “ the third day .” For first-century Jews, that wasn’t a throwaway detail. Weddings were often held on the third day of the week—Tuesday—because in the creation story, Tuesday is the only day God called good twice. A double blessing. Even today, some Jewish couples choose Tuesday for that reason. But “ the third day ” carried even more resonance. Again and again in Hebrew scripture, the third day was the day God showed up. Abraham saw Mount Moriah on the third day. God descended on Sinai on the third day. Esther put on her royal robes and went before the king on the third day. To say something happened on “the third day” was to say: expect God to arrive, expect deliverance, expect blessing. So John knew what he was doing when he set the Cana story on that day. It wasn’t just about the calendar. It was a signal: this is the kind of moment when heaven leans close. And when heaven leans close, the ordinary becomes charged with meaning. Even the wine. Wine is central at Jewish weddings, not just as refreshment but as covenant. The ceremony begins with blessings over the kiddush cup, sanctifying the marriage. Wine marks both betrothal (kiddushin) and marriage (nissuin). It’s more than a drink—it is joy, covenant, and abundance poured into a single cup. That’s why running out of wine at Cana wasn’t just awkward. Without wine, the celebration itself felt incomplete. So when the jars were filled and the steward tasted new wine, it wasn’t just about quenching thirst—it was about joy restored, covenant renewed, abundance overflowing. What I love most is that wine in Jewish tradition always carries both sweetness and seriousness. It’s laughter and gravity in a single sip. The sweetness of joy, the weight of commitment. Every toast raised holds both—celebration and promise mingled together. ( And really, it’s one of the few times in life when no one complains about being poured a second glass. ) All these details—the canopy overhead, the blessing of the third day, the wine in their hands—remind me that weddings were never just social events. They were sacred rehearsals of older stories, echoes of covenant, reminders that life itself is stitched together with meaning. Which brings me back to the wedding in Cana. John could have begun with something more dramatic: a healing, a resurrection, a thunderous sign. Instead, he begins with a wedding. A family gathering. A table that was about to run dry. It turns out he knew that the extraordinary often hides inside the ordinary. That the presence of God shows up not just in miracles, but in music and laughter, in promises and canopies, in glasses lifted high. Standing there that night, watching this couple under the chuppah, I realize the altar doesn’t have to be stone or wood. Sometimes it’s laughter under a canopy. Sometimes it’s a circle of dancers clapping to the beat. Sometimes it’s a blessing whispered in Hebrew, or a glass of wine raised in joy. And sometimes, for those who remember the old stories, it’s a promise that echoes even deeper: “I go to prepare a place for you.” Like a bridegroom building an addition onto his father’s house, love prepares room for another. That’s the heart of covenant—making space for someone else, not just in your home but in your life. A wedding. Some wine. And a promise. An unlikely altar, reminding us that love’s promise is always to prepare a place.
Lee Corso made a career out of three little words: “Not so fast!” Delivered with a grin, a wag of the finger, and just enough mischief to keep everyone guessing, it was part joke, part interruption, part blessing. When he said it for the final time on his last ESPN College GameDay , it struck me that those words might be the sermon we all need. Because if we’re honest, most of us are living way too fast. We rush through conversations, multitask our way through meals, scroll past sunsets we barely notice, and plan the next big thing while overlooking the small, holy things happening right now. We’re always sprinting toward “what’s next,” which means we rarely pause long enough to savor what is. In my work with grieving families, I hear a truth again and again: when someone we love dies, it isn’t the big occasions we miss most. It’s the little things . The way he’d whistle while cooking breakfast on a Saturday morning. The way she’d slip her hand into his during a TV show. The sound of her laugh carrying through the house. Those are the things that stick. The everyday moments we barely noticed while they were happening—until suddenly, they’re gone. And only then do we realize how sacred those little things really were. I miss my Saturday football bets with my stepdad—something we did almost every Saturday for years. It wasn’t about the money (there wasn’t much of that anyway). It was the rhythm: the calls, the smack talk, the friendly second-guessing of coaches who would never hear us. A ritual stitched together one autumn at a time. This year, I’m starting that ritual with my two grown sons. Different Saturdays, same heartbeat. Scores and spreads, sure—but mostly a reason to show up for each other. To hear their voices. To make the small thing big again. And I miss Scrabble games with my mom—the quiet competitiveness, the eye she’d give me when I “accidentally” used a questionable word. I miss her laugh most of all. That sound was its own benediction over an ordinary evening. Kids grow up too fast. Parents pass away too early. The calendar insists we keep moving. But Corso’s raspy little reminder pushes back: Not so fast, my friend. The Bible names this rhythm Sabbath—a weekly way of saying not so fast. Rest. Breathe. Remember you are more than what you produce. Jesus lived with that same unhurried attention: lilies, sparrows, children, a tax collector in a tree. He didn’t rush past them. He saw them. He made the little moments holy. I think that’s the secret inside Corso’s catchphrase. It interrupts our certainty and our speed. It creates a pocket of time where we can notice again—be it a goofy mascot head or the person sitting across the table. When we slow down, the little things become altars : The phone call that doesn’t have a “point” beyond hearing a familiar voice. The grandchild’s drawing stays on the fridge longer than the calendar says it should. The first sip of coffee before the house wakes up. A well-worn game board and a laugh that fills the room. These aren’t headlines. They’re sacraments of the everyday. And if we’re going too fast, we’ll miss them. Lee Corso’s farewell wasn’t just about football or mascot heads. It was about a life spent showing up, savoring the moment, and never taking himself too seriously. That’s what he gave us, week after week—a reason to laugh, to pause, to notice. And maybe that’s what made his catchphrase feel like a benediction. So maybe that’s the blessing we carry forward: Not so fast, my friend. Not so fast when grief feels like it should be over. Not so fast when joy seems too small to matter. Not so fast when life pushes you to hurry past the wonder of an ordinary day. Slow down. Breathe. Call your people. Place your tiles on the board. Make your silly bets. Laugh in the kitchen. The altar might already be right in front of you.