Stepping Up to the Plate

Legend has it that we have President William Howard Taft to thank for the 7th-inning stretch. The story goes that on April 14, 1910, during Opening Day at Griffith Stadium in Washington, D.C., President Taft stood up to stretch his legs. It was a game between the Washington Senators and the Philadelphia Athletics. Taft wasn’t trying to make a statement or start a tradition. He was just - - uncomfortable. The wooden seat didn’t exactly accommodate his 300-pound frame. But when the President stood up, the crowd instinctively rose with him - - out of respect, maybe confusion, maybe relief. And just like that, a ritual was born. That same day, Taft also tossed out the very first ceremonial first pitch by a sitting U.S. president - - starting yet another baseball tradition that continues to this day. Now, historians will argue about whether that’s really how the 7th inning stretch started. There are earlier mentions, of course. But either way, I love the image: a moment of discomfort turned into tradition. A small pause that became sacred, not because it was planned, but because people stood together. The 7th inning stretch isn’t just a break in the game. It’s a shared breath. A reset. A moment where the music plays, fans stand up, arms go skyward, maybe someone sings off-key, maybe someone grabs a hot dog. And then… we sit back down, ready for what’s next. We don’t talk enough about the holiness of the stretch - - not the physical kind that loosens your muscles, but the emotional and spiritual kind that gives your soul room to breathe. I’m talking about the in-between kind. The pause between grief and healing. Between questions and clarity. Between what just happened and what comes next. The sacred space where you’re no longer where you were, but not quite where you’re going. And even in that uncertain middle - - something holy can begin to take shape. Life moves fast. Faster than a fastball. And when fear is driving - - fear of failure, fear of missing out, fear of slowing down - - we tend to barrel through without stopping. We push past our limits, pretend we’re fine, and fill every quiet space with noise. But sacred things happen in the pause. And let’s be honest - - sometimes we avoid the pause on purpose . Because slowing down means facing the thing we’ve been trying to outrun: grief, regret, exhaustion, or just plain emptiness. It’s easier to keep moving than to sit in what hurts. But even silence can be holy. Even stillness can hold us. I’ve had stretches in my life where I didn’t know what to pray, or even if I believed half the things I was supposed to. But I knew enough to stop. To breathe. To sit with the ache instead of shoving it away. It didn’t fix everything. But it kept me from falling apart. When I think about the most meaningful moments in my life, they weren’t always in the big innings - - the wins, the celebrations. Some of them happened in the stretch: sitting in silence with a grieving family, standing still at a graveside, pausing in the middle of a sermon because the lump in my throat wouldn’t budge. Sometimes the most honest thing we can do is stop. Maybe that’s why ballparks all over the country honor this odd little moment. It’s not about who’s winning or who’s up next. It’s about giving everyone - - players, fans, vendors - - a chance to exhale. To stand up. To stretch. To remember they’re human. In the chaos of life, we need our own sacred stretches. A quiet coffee before the house wakes up. A deep breath before returning that difficult call. A walk. A song. A few tears. A prayer whispered through clenched teeth. These aren’t delays - - they’re sacred pauses. They keep us from burning out. They remind us we’re not machines. So here’s your permission ( not that you need it ): Take the stretch. Stand up. Step away. Sing off-key. Reach toward the sky. Not because you have to, but because sometimes the sacred sneaks in when we stop long enough to let it catch up. Because some of the most unlikely altars are built in those in-between moments — where the game slows, the noise softens, and something holy sneaks in. Because the game will go on. But you? You matter more.

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: • 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: • 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.