One of the features of Phoenix city planning is large areas of sunken ground intended to be drainage basins during monsoon season that during the rest of the year we desert dwellers use as parks. In fact, the city has named them parks, and I am fortunate enough to live within a mile of three of them: Turtle Basin Park, Quail Run Basin Park, and Grovers Basin Park. These basin parks have trails that meander through or around them, trees and shrubs at the top, and large grassy areas at the bottom (perfect for year round soccer if that’s your “thing,” and in Arizona that seems to be a lot of people’s “thing”). In the summer storm season, if Arizona is lucky, these basins fill with the desert’s much coveted water.
While soccer is not my “thing,” running tends to be, and most days I end up running in/around/through at least one of these parks. Sunday was one of those prefect Sonoran blue-sky winter days, almost 70°, birds chirping, children out riding bikes – glorious! So, I jogged my way past the houses and schools and +55 mobile communities to a park that has a relatively circular path. I like this one; it’s almost like I can set autopilot. No thinking, no planning. (Just have to be careful no tripping.). I can loose myself in the breathing, find myself in the connection of prayer, but Sunday before I get to that place of connection something caught my attention.
I was a quarter way around the circle when I saw a tiny golden-haired girl, maybe 3 or 4-years old, with her mother standing beside a tree at the edge of the bottom of the basin. Nothing is novel in seeing children with their parents in a park (I know.), but it’s what she was doing that captured my focus. As I watched, the mother gently sent an underhand pitch toward the wee bit of a thing, and the little girl swung a bat longer than she was tall and whacked that ball. I was so surprised and delighted I almost laughed aloud. Now, the ball didn’t go very far, because this sprite hadn’t much arm strength (like I should be talking), but then the little mite did the last thing I expected. She took off in a dead sprint after that ball she just hit, snatched it from the ground even as she pivoted on one foot, then ran like the hounds of hell were on her heels straight back to her mother where she came to a dead stop and carefully placed the ball back in her mother’s open hand. And the process began anew.
Now, I was so enthralled by this child-and-mother pair that I ended up running the basin loop three times rather than my normal two just to observe them at play, and then it occurred to me that what I was witnessing was not really play at all. Instead, I was being given a very great blessing in the opportunity to observe a training ritual. (By the way, they were still at it when I jogged my way on to the rest of my course almost 25 min later.), and that left me pensive and prayerful for the remainder of my run.
We’re told that we are born into this world with our days already numbered and written, our work already prepared, and we know His word is always faithful, always true. Sometimes, however, it feels as though I’m stumbling down my path wearing blinders, my vision horribly narrowed, or worse, through darkened rooms with the light switches torn out.
After watching that teensy girl smack that ball time and again, I began to wonder if perhaps I’ve been perceiving life all wrong? What if all these years – these decades – of limited vision have really been about training? What if the storms and fiery crashes that have left me terribly skittish have really been about learning to swing and hit the ball – hit the ball, watch for it to land, pick it up again, then having enough faith to place that ball gently back in His hands and say, “Okay, repeat.” Hmmh…
Okay, Father, repeat.
The Unexpected Life 