“I am living an answered prayer,” I remind myself—sitting on a bucket, shagging balls as my son throws from a homemade mound into a homemade strike zone and backstop. He’s just home from practice and still wants to play.
“Dad, do you want to watch me pitch?” he asked when home.
“I do,” my answer, then rise from office and reading chair rest to gather bucket of balls from garage and take to him on yard.
Life will give plenty of time and years for reading chair rest. There are only so many we are gifted to live with our kids while they ask and want us there.
I go, living present and the gift while it is there.
Evening, sun is low and falling further. He throws. I watch and listen to the whistle of seams and thud of ball to catching backstop—both beautiful sounds forgotten and returned from live of my own youth.
He throws. I shag and throw back balls when his bucket beside mound is empty.
We throw to when sun disappears and sky is still lit. He is happy, and so am I.
“I am living an answered prayer,” I remind myself, present and taking it in—grateful in its live.