Sacred in the Sandlot
Finding Grace Between the Sacred and the Scared
I have always been passionate about the game of baseball. Not just the big-league games on TV or those legendary October moments, but the small stuff too - - the sandlots, the cracked bats, the smell of leather gloves. Baseball has this rhythm that feels like life: long stretches of waiting, bursts of action, moments of joy, and the occasional heartbreak.
I never played T-ball or coach-pitch (neither were available for me), but I remember vividly the first time I stood at home plate in a real Little League game. I stood in the batter's box with a bat in my hands and a pitcher staring me down. I was terrified. My hands were shaking, my knees felt like rubber, and I had no idea what I was doing-not really.
I didn't strike out, but not because of anything I did. The pitcher wasn't the best, and I was too scared to swing. Eventually, I walked. My big debut was nothing heroic, but I made it to first base. And I learned something that day: showing up is half the battle, even when you're scared out of your mind.
I didn't know it then, but there's something deeply sacred about those shaky-knee moments - - the ones where fear doesn't disappear, but you move forward anyway. Throughout Scripture, it's often in moments of trembling - - burning bushes, angel visitations, storm-tossed boats-that people encounter the presence of God. Holiness isn't always calm and serene; sometimes it arrives with a pounding heart and a lump in your throat. Sacred and scared share all the same letters-just arranged a little differently. And maybe that's the point. Sometimes, all that stands between fear and holiness is a shift in perspective, a reordering of what we thought we knew. In my experience, the most sacred moments often begin in fear-not because fear is divine, but because that's where grace so often meets us.
That's what this series is about: the space between scared and sacred. The ordinary moments that hold more meaning than we realize. Over the next few weeks, I'll share a few reflections from the ballfield and beyond. Not sermons-just stories. About showing up, falling down, stretching out, and holding onto hope when the game goes into extra innings.
Because sometimes, the most sacred ground is dusty, unpredictable, and marked by chalk lines.
Now, "sacred" is a word people usually save for stained glass and holy places, not outfield grass and dugouts. But here's what I've noticed: sacred moments don't just happen in quiet chapels or mountain sunsets. They sneak up on us in ordinary spaces-sometimes right where the dust rises, the lights hum, and the scoreboard blinks.
Think about it:
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The first time you step up to the plate in front of a crowd- - you're scared.
• The moment you stop to breathe in a world that never slows down - - it feels like you're falling behind.
• The day you drop the ball, and everyone sees - - it feels like failure will get the last word.
• And when life goes off-script, and you're deep into extra innings - - you're not sure how much longer you can hold on.
Sacred doesn't always feel safe. It often starts with that flutter in your stomach, that quickening heartbeat, that voice that says, "What if I strike out?" But if we never show up, we never get to swing.
This series is called
Sacred in the Sandlot: Finding Grace Between the Sacred and the Scared
because I believe those two words belong together. Every holy, ordinary moment in life comes with a little risk. A little vulnerability. A little fear. That's what makes it beautiful.
Over the next few weeks, I'll be sharing four reflections inspired by baseball and life:
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Stepping Up to the Plate - The Fear of Showing Up
• The 7th Inning Stretch - Sacred Pauses in a Fear-Driven World
• The Error That Changed Everything - Failing into Grace
• Extra Innings - When Life Goes Off Script
These aren't sermons. They're stories. Little snapshots of where the sacred hides out-sometimes in plain sight, sometimes in the places that make us sweat a little.
So grab your glove, or at least a good seat on the bleachers. And let's see what happens when we lean into the scared places long enough to find the sacred.
Because sometimes the most holy ground is covered in dirt.
Paul starts his letter to the Philippians the way he starts almost every letter he ever wrote — with two simple words that sound like a benediction and a blessing all at once: “ Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. ” Grace and peace. It’s easy to glide right past them. After all, Paul says it so often it can sound like his version of, “ Dear friends, hope you’re doing well. ” But those words are anything but filler. They’re the opening line of a letter written from prison — a man in chains sending light through a keyhole. That’s the thing about grace and peace. They don’t wait for better conditions. When Paul writes, he doesn’t start with complaints about the guards or the food or how cold the nights are. He doesn’t list his injuries or beg for sympathy. Instead, he offers what he himself most needs: grace and peace. I’ve come to believe that the words we offer the world when we’re hurting reveal what’s deepest in us. For Paul, it was this stubborn conviction that God was still at work, even in confinement — that grace still flowed and peace was still possible. Grace and Peace Paul begins with two words that still have the power to stop me in my tracks: grace and peace. He could’ve opened with something more ordinary — Dear friends , or Hang in there . But instead, from a cell that smelled of iron and damp stone, he chooses a blessing. He leads with joy. Grace — that wild, unearned love that shows up even when we’ve done nothing to deserve it. Grace is the quiet voice that says, “ You’re still min e.” It’s the kind of love that doesn’t wait for you to get your act together. It just walks right into your mess and sits down beside you. And peace — not the fragile kind that depends on calm seas or perfect days, but the kind that holds steady when the waves are high. The kind that whispers, “ You’re okay, even here .” I love that Paul links the two together, because grace without peace feels unfinished, and peace without grace feels forced. Together they form a rhythm — grace that reaches, peace that remains . And maybe that’s what Paul was really offering: a new way to begin. Can you imagine if those were the first words we spoke to each other every morning? Joy to you. Peace to you. Every kind of good to you. How different a day might feel if it started there — not with headlines or hurry, but with blessing. Maybe that’s the secret of Paul’s letter: that even in a place built to break him, he still believed goodness could find a way through the cracks. So what would it look like to practice this? Maybe it starts small — whispering “grace and peace” toward the people you don’t even like. Or toward yourself when that inner critic starts its sermon again. So what would it look like to practice this? Maybe it’s learning to pause, breathe peace, and offer grace instead. When gossip starts — grace and peace . When the argument heats — grace and peace. When you replay the hurt that still stings — grace and peace . Interrupt the old patterns with blessing. The early church actually practiced this. In Acts 14 and 20, believers would commend one another to God’s grace before sending them out. They’d gather, pray, lay on hands, and say, “You are given over to God’s grace and peace.” What if we did that? What if we treated every conversation, every cup of coffee, every parting at the door as a small commissioning — giving one another over to grace and peace before we go back into the world? A Roman prison doesn’t sound like much of a sanctuary, but Paul found one there. Maybe that’s the invitation — to find our own Unlikely Altars , the places where grace still surprises us and peace somehow holds. If I’m honest, I’m preaching to myself here. I could use a little grace and peace most mornings before the second Mountain Dew. So wherever you are today — in traffic, in grief, in the middle of a week that feels like too much — hear this old, stubborn greeting again: Grace and peace to you. Not someday. Not when you’ve earned it. Right now .
Some of the best letters ever written came from prison. Not cozy writer’s retreats, not beach houses, not corner offices with ocean views. Prisons. Paul’s letters from Rome. Bonhoeffer’s from Tegel. Martin Luther King Jr.’s from Birmingham. Each penned behind locked doors, on borrowed paper, with hope that somehow the words might slip past the guards and make it into the world. And they did. What fascinates me is not just what they wrote, but where they wrote it from. It’s one thing to talk about faith or freedom or joy when you’re standing on a stage. It’s another when your only audience is a damp wall and a single beam of light. Paul starts his letter to the Philippians with the same two words he used so often: grace and peace. Not resentment. Not a plea for bail. Grace and peace. As if he’s saying, “Yes, I’m chained up—but I’m free where it counts.” That’s what hooked me. Because I’ve learned that “prison” doesn’t always have bars. Sometimes it looks like grief. Or waiting rooms. Or a quiet house after someone’s gone. Sometimes it’s a job that’s lost its meaning, or a season when God seems to have stepped out for coffee and hasn’t come back yet. We’ve all got our versions. And maybe—just maybe—the letters we write ( or live ) from those places are the ones that matter most. The ones we didn’t plan on writing. The ones that bleed a little truth and hum with hope in spite of it all. When Bonhoeffer wrote from his cell, he wasn’t trying to be profound—he was trying to stay human. He wrote about missing his fiancée, about books he wished he had, about the longing to see the sky. And in between the lines of the ordinary came the sacred: “ Only the suffering God can help .” When Dr. King wrote from Birmingham Jail, he wasn’t crafting a masterpiece—he was answering a letter from fellow pastors who told him to wait. “ Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, ” he replied, with chains on his wrists and conviction in his voice. And Paul—well, he wrote to say thank you. To encourage. To remind a fledgling community that joy doesn’t depend on circumstances. He wrote about grace, love, partnership, deliverance, and struggle—words that still breathe life into our own small confinements. Maybe the best letters come from prison because that’s where honesty and hope have to share the same cell. And maybe that’s what makes it an Unlikely Altar . A place where faith is stripped to its bones, where prayers sound less like poetry and more like breathing, and where grace shows up in the least graceful places imaginable. Over the next few posts, I want to walk through Philippians chapter one—slowly. Not to decode it, but to dwell in it. To listen for the heartbeat behind the bars. We’ll start where Paul starts: with grace and peace . Then move into gratitude for the good work God’s still doing ( even when it feels like He’s on break ). We’ll talk about what it means to hold people in your heart, to let love abound, to trust in deliverance, and to find solidarity in struggle. You don’t have to be in prison to get it. You just have to know what it’s like to feel stuck—to long for something freer, deeper, truer. This series isn’t about how to escape. It’s about what you can discover when you can’t. Because maybe the sacred still writes letters from the places we’d rather forget. And maybe the God who showed up in Paul’s cell still shows up in ours—reminding us that grace can grow in concrete cracks, and peace can find a way through iron bars. Grace and peace! Let’s open this letter together.
There’s a sound every cyclist knows — the click of clipping in. For me, it’s one of the most satisfying sounds in the world. That tiny, metallic click says, You’re connected. You’re ready. Let’s ride. It’s also the sound I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear again after my crash. A patch of slush, one bad angle, and an ankle full of hardware later, I found myself grounded for months — and eventually years — before I was able to really ride again. Add Sjögren’s Disease into the mix, and the idea of climbing back on the bike sometimes felt more like foolish nostalgia than wisdom. But grace has a way of whispering, Try again. And so, I did. The first time I clipped in again, I smiled. Not because it was easy — it wasn’t. But because I realized the road still had more to teach me. There’s something holy about motion — even slow, hesitant motion. About wind on your face and breath in your lungs. About knowing the ride won’t be perfect but pedaling anyway. Because the truth is, life rarely gives you tailwinds. Most days, it’s a mix of potholes and headwinds and st retches of rough pavement that test more than your legs. But grace doesn’t wait for the perfect road. Grace rides with you — through the wobble, the pain, the wind, and the weariness. What does that really mean? It means grace is the quiet companion drafting just behind you — not pushing harder, but keeping you from quitting. Grace isn’t the coach yelling from the sidelines; it’s the presence that matches your cadence, breath for breath, mile for mile. Grace doesn’t flatten the hills or calm the wind. It rides beside you through them. It steadies your shaking hands when you hit rough pavement. It gives you the courage to unclip when you need to stop — and the strength to clip back in when you’re ready to move again. Grace shows up in the quietest ways — a moment of laughter in the middle of exhaustion, a friend who calls at the right time, a peace that comes out of nowhere when you thought you were done. Sometimes it’s not even words. It’s breath. It’s presence. It’s that deep-down knowing that you’re not riding alone, even when no one else is on the road. And every now and then, grace even lets you coast. The road has become an Unlikely Altar for me — the place where faith and fatigue meet, where sweat becomes prayer, and where I remember that grace doesn’t mean ease. It means presence. When I ride now, I don’t measure distance or speed the way I used to. I measure gratitude — for the ability to move, to breathe, to clip in one more time. Maybe that’s the quiet gift of age, of injury, of illness — you learn that the point was never perfection, but participation. You get back on the bike not because the road is smooth, but because the ride itself is sacred. So if you find yourself staring at a road that looks long, uneven, or uphill, take a breath. Clip in. Start pedaling. Grace doesn’t clear the path. It keeps you company on the ride. You’re never alone on the ride.