Aunt Carol's Tribute to Daddy

My brother Steve LOVED to play baseball.

Second base in High School; short stop in college. He was really proud of the fact that in all the years he played, Little League through college, he never failed to make the starting lineup. He was that good.

He learned to play and love the game when we were just little kids. Our house on Northwood Road had a big front yard, and from the time it was barely warm enough in spring until it was too cold in the fall, neighborhood kids would gather in our yard to play baseball.

In the evenings our Dad would join us and run a little baseball clinic. He’d patiently pitch to us and teach us to hit. He’d play pepper, or flies and grounders until it was too dark to see the ball.

Steve was a natural. His skills just improved over the years. He had a good eye and was a solid hitter. He was an excellent infielder because he was quick, and he had a powerful throwing arm. You should have seen him turn a double play! But, oh, how Steve could run! Head down, arms and legs pumping, he flew around the base paths.

Last winter he and I were talking on the phone. We were reminiscing about his baseball playing days. He told me something I hadn’t known: Twice in his baseball career he’d attempted to steal home. Both times he’d been called out. By the sound of his voice I could tell: he wished he’d had another chance.

Well, last Monday morning Steve got another chance.

He’d made it all the way to third base. He was exhausted. He watched the pitcher, carefully calculating his lead-off distance. Suddenly he took off, flying toward the plate. Head down, arms and legs pumping. Then he dove, head first, I just KNOW he did!

But this time, waiting for him was the Lord Jesus Christ. Arms spread wide in welcome, He leaned over Steve’s outstretched fingers, and He said “You’re safe, Steve. You’re Safe at Home.”