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The house is quiet now, settled into that soft, blue light of early evening. The only sound is the gentle thud of little feet upstairs, a sound that means someone is supposed to be in bed but is, instead, probably lining up stuffed animals on the floor. 🧸
Earlier today, we were in the yard, enjoying that slice of warm afternoon sun. My youngest found a scuffed-up tennis ball, and soon we were deep in a game of catch. His throws were wobbly, earnest things, arcing wildly and usually landing a few feet shy of my hands. He’d get that frustrated little scrunch in his nose, and I’d just toss it back, slow and soft.
It’s funny how a simple game of catch can feel like so much more. Our version of baseball has no rules, no teams, no score. It’s just the two of us, the green grass, and the space between the throw and the catch. It’s a lesson in patience, watching him try and try again without jumping in to “fix” his form. It’s a lesson in grace, for myself, when I miss a catch because I was lost in thought.
So much of being a parent feels like this, doesn't it? It’s not about the home runs or the perfect plays. It's about the messy, beautiful, in-between moments. It’s about creating a safe space to be clumsy, to wobble, to try again. It’s about showing up and saying, with every gentle toss back, *I see you. I’m here. We have all the time in the world.*
In a world that rushes and measures everything, these slow, backyard innings feel like a quiet rebellion. They are the moments that hold everything else up.
What’s a small, simple game in your life that feels like it holds something bigger?
Earlier today, we were in the yard, enjoying that slice of warm afternoon sun. My youngest found a scuffed-up tennis ball, and soon we were deep in a game of catch. His throws were wobbly, earnest things, arcing wildly and usually landing a few feet shy of my hands. He’d get that frustrated little scrunch in his nose, and I’d just toss it back, slow and soft.
It’s funny how a simple game of catch can feel like so much more. Our version of baseball has no rules, no teams, no score. It’s just the two of us, the green grass, and the space between the throw and the catch. It’s a lesson in patience, watching him try and try again without jumping in to “fix” his form. It’s a lesson in grace, for myself, when I miss a catch because I was lost in thought.
So much of being a parent feels like this, doesn't it? It’s not about the home runs or the perfect plays. It's about the messy, beautiful, in-between moments. It’s about creating a safe space to be clumsy, to wobble, to try again. It’s about showing up and saying, with every gentle toss back, *I see you. I’m here. We have all the time in the world.*
In a world that rushes and measures everything, these slow, backyard innings feel like a quiet rebellion. They are the moments that hold everything else up.
What’s a small, simple game in your life that feels like it holds something bigger?
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