I failed.
I failed yesterday to finish a field—I buried the planter in mud after dark with forty acres left in ground that was dry “on top.”
I failed to make it to the start of my son’s baseball game for his he and his team I help coach.
But sometimes, God grants grace and opportunities in failings.
Burying the planter, my expected late night ended early. The game was still going. Mile walk to a truck, my wife messaged, “Matthew is about to pitch.”
I try and run—failed at that too; guess at forty you can’t pick up at your twenty-something Marine Corps pace on a whim.
Still, by the grace of God—my son failed. He struggled to throw strikes, and my whole time trying to hurry, he walked the bases—and runs—and I made it to the game.
I start to coach, same words and tones as in our yard. He hears my voice. He hears my clap—he throws a few strikes. He strikes one out.
Soon the game ends. My son is disappointed how he did. I feel the same of my own day and the outcome of my efforts.
Still, there was blessing of the failures. Without them, I would not have made it to his game. I would have missed his strikeout; and if I had to choose, I’d rather miss the walks and cheer him in his highs (we’ll work through the lows together and away from the crowds and lights).
It is next day. I failed to get the planter moved before the rain arrived. The cable’s attached and I wait for another tractor to see if it’ll free.
It’s a mess, but still I choose to believe there’s blessing somewhere in this too.