The 7th Inning Stretch
A Sacred Breath in the Middle of the Noise
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.
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.
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