Extra Innings
When the Story Isn’t Over
One of the things I love about baseball is that you can’t run the clock out. There’s no dribbling the ball to kill the last seconds or taking a knee until the whistle blows. Nine innings. No ties. If the score’s even after 9 innings, the game isn’t over - - it just keeps going.
Nine innings can feel like a lifetime when you’re losing and like a blink when you’re ahead in the ninth and the other team is down to their last strike. But then there are those special games - - the ones that refuse to end. You know the kind: both teams have had their 27 outs, the score is still tied, and the air is thick with tension. Welcome to extra innings.
Every pitch, every swing, every foul ball becomes part of a slow-burn drama. The script is gone. The game starts writing itself in real time, and you’re never sure if the next swing will be the last.
Just ask Carlton Fisk.
It was Game 6 of the 1975 World Series - - Boston Red Sox vs. Cincinnati Reds. The game had already gone past midnight, deep into extra innings. Fisk came up to bat in the bottom of the 12th, the crowd on edge. He swung, connected, and sent the ball soaring toward the foul pole in left field. As he ran down the first base line, Fisk famously waved his arms, willing the ball to stay fair. It did. The crowd erupted. The game was over, and that single swing became one of the most iconic moments in baseball history.
Extra innings carry both the weariness of the battle and the thrill of possibility. And life is a lot like that.
Grief can be an extra innings game. You think you’ve made it to the end; the funeral is over, the casseroles are eaten, the thank-you cards are mailed. And then, months later, a song plays, or an empty chair catches your eye and the ache rushes back like it’s brand new. But sometimes, even in the later innings, there’s a flicker of beauty a memory that makes you smile through tears, a reminder you’re not as alone as you feel.
Relationships have extra innings too. Sometimes you’re still in it, but it feels like the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Conversations that once flowed now work against the count. Every word matters. Every silence feels louder. And yet… you’re still on the field together. Still showing up.
I’ve seen it in families keeping vigil in a hospital room - - hours blurring, fluorescent lights humming, burnt coffee lingering. Then, in between the beeping of machines, someone cracks a joke. Soft laughter rises in the middle of exhaustion. It’s not denial - - it’s survival.
I’ve seen it in people whose “Plan B” career became the thing they were made for all along. What started as a detour became the road they were meant to walk - - a calling they wouldn’t have found without the curveball that sent them there.
Extra innings can be exhausting. They can feel like a test you never signed up for. But they can also be holy ground - - Unlikely Altars - - those sacred places where grace meets us long after we thought the story was finished.
Grace doesn’t play by our timing. It stays when we’re ready to pack it in. It keeps showing up in the dugout, ready to step to the plate one more time.
When we whisper, “I can’t do this anymore,” grace says, “Just one more pitch.”
Sometimes the win we’ve been hoping for doesn’t look the way we pictured it. It’s not always a walk-off home run. Sometimes it’s just enough light to see through another inning. Sometimes it’s the hand on your shoulder reminding you you’re not alone.
The breakthrough doesn’t always come in regulation. Sometimes you have to hang in for a few more pitches, a few more sleepless nights, a few more honest conversations.
Extra innings aren’t just about winning — they’re about discovering what you’re made of. And about the grace that keeps showing up, even when you’re ready to quit.
If you’re in extra innings right now - - in your health, your work, your relationships, your faith - - remember Yogi Berra’s words: “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
The story’s not over. Not yet.
Because sometimes, the most sacred stories are the ones that go into extra innings. And sometimes, the most Unlikely Altars are built right there - - in the long wait, in the stubborn hope, in the space where grace refuses to leave.
Every December, the argument returns like a familiar carol sung a little too loud. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Some folks hold tight to their cocoa mugs and say, “ No way. ” Others smile the way you smile when the argument is already settled in your heart. I’ve come to believe the debate survives because it isn’t really about explosions or one-liners. It’s about where Christmas actually finds us. When I was preaching, Christmas was rarely quiet. Four or five services on Christmas Eve. Programs to assemble. Bulletins to proof. Candles to count. Microphones to fix. Holy night by way of logistics. I loved the people. I believed the message. But if I’m honest, there were years when I was just muscling through it all, trying to sound joyful while quietly counting the hours until December 26th. Not because I didn’t care. Because I was tired. Christmas had become something I delivered more than something I received. And then, late. After the sanctuaries were dark. After the last “ Merry Christmas ” was said. After the robe was hung back up. Die Hard would sometimes flicker onto the screen. No sermon. No sanctuary. Just a tired preacher on a couch watching a tired man crawl through air ducts, barefoot, scraped up, and refusing to quit. That’s when Christmas found me. First, the setting. Christmas Eve. Office party. Tinsel, teddy bears, and awkward small talk. The soundtrack includes sleigh bells and gunfire, which feels honest if we’re being real about the season. Love arrives on a plane. Redemption arrives barefoot. Second, the plot. A man flies across the country to fix a marriage. He brings a gun, sure, but mostly he brings humility. He learns to say the right name. He learns to ask for help. He learns that reconciliation costs something. If that’s not Advent, I’m not sure what is. Third, the theology of it all. Christmas, at its heart, insists that hope shows up where it shouldn’t. In a stable. In a cubicle farm. In a high-rise named Nakatomi. Grace breaks in during a holiday party and doesn’t bother to RSVP. This is why Die Hard feels like an altar to me. Not a cathedral altar with candles and quiet. An Unlikely Altar . The kind you stumble into while holding snacks. The kind that surprises you with meaning between explosions and one-liners. Because the movie isn’t really about violence. It’s about stubborn love. It’s about a man who keeps crawling through ducts because quitting would be easier, but it would be less faithful. It’s about choosing a relationship over pride. It’s about saying, “ I was wrong, ” and meaning it, even when the building is on fire. And yes, there is a Christmas miracle. Snow falls in Los Angeles. Paper snow, but still. A family is restored. A villain falls. A limo driver gets a tip. The season delivers what it always promises: not perfection, but presence. So, light the tree. Pour something festive. Put Die Hard on the screen and let it preach. Let it remind you that Christmas shows up loud and sideways, that love sometimes limps, and that grace can absolutely wear a tank top. An Unlikely Altar. A Holy night. Yippee-ki-yay, AMEN! 🎄💥
I don’t know your name, but I know this moment. You opened the conversation. You hesitated. And then life stepped in. You know, that happens more often than you might think. I’ve sat at kitchen tables where someone said, “ We meant to do this .” I’ve stood beside families who whispered, “ They kept saying they’d get to it. ” I’ve watched love carry grief—and then watched grief carry bills, decisions, and questions that felt impossibly unfair. This isn’t a letter written to rush you. It’s written because I’ve seen what happens when no one ever circles back. I once stood with a family the morning after a death. The house was quiet in that way only grief can make it. Coffee untouched. Phones buzzing with questions no one wanted to answer yet. Someone finally asked, “ Is there anything in place? ” But there wasn’t What followed wasn’t just sadness. It was scrambling. Credit cards. Awkward conversations. A weight added to a moment already heavy with love and loss. But there are those times when I have seen another scene. I’ve been with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those rooms, grief was still heavy—after all, love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. That’s why this matters to me. Not because I sell final expense insurance. But because I’ve watched what happens when love prepares the way—and when it doesn’t get the chance. If you paused because the conversation felt heavy, I understand. If you paused because life got loud, I understand that, too. If you paused because you told yourself, “ I’ll come back to this ,” I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count. This isn’t about fear. It’s about care. It’s about peace. It’s about love. Final expense planning isn’t about planning your death. It’s about caring for the people who will still be here when you’re gone. It’s about making sure grief doesn’t have to carry more than it already will. Love will always make grief heavy. A plan simply keeps other burdens from piling on. If you never come back to this conversation, I hope you still hear the heart behind it. And if someday you do return, I hope you know the door was always open. Because this work—this quiet, unseen preparation—is one of the last ways love shows up. And that is no small gift.
The service is over. The thank-you notes have been started. The flowers are starting to fade. Most of the company has travelled home. And the casseroles are stacked in mismatched containers, names written on blue tape. This is what the day after looks like. It’s the morning when the house is too quiet. When the adrenaline wears off. When everyone else has returned to their lives, and you are left standing in the middle of a room, wondering what happens next. Because grief is heavy enough. Not only is the day after quiet, but it is also the kind of silence that invites questions. And those questions can overwhelm you. Who do we call now? What needs to be paid? Is there insurance? Where is the paperwork? What did they want? These questions don’t come because people are being practical. They come because love is trying to keep going in the middle of loss. And because grief is heavy enough, those questions can feel overwhelming. I’ve spent years standing with families in these moments. As a pastor. As a celebrant. As someone who knows that the hardest parts often come after the service ends. I’ve seen families gathered around kitchen tables, coffee gone cold, paperwork spread out in quiet confusion. I’ve also seen something else. I’ve seen what happens when one small thing is already taken care of. Not everything. Just one thing. A simple plan. A clear answer. A quiet assurance that one question does not have to be asked today. Because grief is heavy enough without financial questions layered on top of it. When that piece is in place, something shifts in the room. Shoulders soften. Breathing slows. People are allowed to be exactly what they are in that moment— sad, tired, grieving, human. Final expense planning doesn’t take away grief. Nothing does. But it can take away one weight that doesn’t belong there. Because grief is heavy enough on its own. Planning ahead is not about paperwork or policies. It’s about peace. It’s about leaving behind one less burden for the people you love. It’s about making sure the day after holds space for tears instead of tension. If you’ve ever thought, I should probably take care of this someday, you’re not being morbid. You’re being loving. Because grief is heavy enough. Love will always make it heavy. Planning ahead just keeps other burdens from piling on — so families can grieve without also having to guess. And that is no small gift. If you’d like to talk about what planning ahead could look like for your family—without pressure and at your pace—I’m always here for that conversation. Breathe peace. Marty