The Glove Left Behind
On Baseball, Absence, and the Sacred Ache of What Never Was
I never had a catch with my dad. Not once. Not even close.
He chose to leave pretty much, long before I knew what to do with a ball or how to spell “mitt.” One day he was there, the next—he wasn’t. No goodbye. No warning. Just gone, like a foul ball that disappears into the stands and doesn’t come back.
I didn’t even know what I was missing at the time. You can’t grieve what you don’t understand. But as I got older and saw other dads playing catch with their kids—heard the thump of leather in the air, saw the high-fives and the laughter—I started to understand exactly what I didn’t get.
Then one day, years later, I was digging through an old box when I found it. Inside among papers, certificates and other stuff, was a baseball glove. His glove. It was worn and dusty, creased like it had lived a life. I slipped my hand inside. It didn’t fit quite right. No way it could fit, he was left-handed. He was a southpaw. And I never knew.
It hit me, standing with his glove, that I didn’t even know what hand my father threw with. That glove had never been mine and never would be. It wasn’t a gift. It was just… something he left behind.
I kept it. Tucked it back into the box. Closed the box and returned it to the shelf. Funny enough, there’s another box in the same closet. That one holds his ashes. So now I’ve got a box with his body, and a box with his glove. One for the man who left, one for the game he never played with me.
Now, if you know me, you know I love baseball. For me it is the metaphor for life, The long season. The rhythm. The fact that you can fail seven times out of ten and still be considered great.
That’s probably why Field of Dreams always hits me like a fastball to the chest. Especially the end—Costner turning to his dad, voice a little shaky, asking, “Hey Dad… wanna have a catch?” Every single time, I lose it. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it. That moment wrecks me. Because that was my dream. Always. That was the moment I never got.
But here’s where the story turns.
Not long ago, I was in the backyard with one of my sons. We were messing around; we grabbed gloves (both right-handed ones, thank you very much) and I him tossed a ball. He threw it back. And there it was. We were having a catch. Just like that.
No soundtrack swelling. No ghosts in cornfields. Just a dad and his kid, throwing a ball back and forth. And I’ve gotta say—it was one of the best things ever.
That backyard moment didn’t fix what I missed growing up. But it rewrote the story. It baptized the ache. It reminded me that I don’t have to pass down what was handed to me. I get to choose something different. I get to show up.
That glove—the one that never quite fit—still sits in the box. But lately, I’ve thought about taking it out. Maybe even setting it on a shelf. Not because it’s sacred, but because it tells the truth. That even something left behind can hold a thread of redemption.
It’s a reminder, of the father who disappeared, of the son who chose to stay,
and the backyard catch that said, this story isn’t over.
I never had a catch with my dad. But I get to have one with my boys. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s more than enough.
Because I still believe in baseball. I believe in gloves that don’t fit and grace that does. I believe in showing up—even when it wasn’t shown to you. And I believe that when this life winds down, and the lights go soft, I’ll hear a voice—quiet, kind, and holy—“Hey kid… wanna have a catch?”
And I’ll know exactly who it is.
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