A white bucket, filled with baseballs. A crack of the bat, rounding of the bases. All of this happening with a bright blue Colorado sky in the background.
It was years ago, yet it seems like yesterday.
Memories came rushing back to my mind yesterday when my friend, Melissa, sent a short film called, “The Bucket,” to me via text. Just five minutes long, it captured a season of my life long since gone, but worth remembering.
When my children were young, they were homeschooled. We spent hours and hours at our local park, honing their hitting, bunting, grounding and base-running skills. My two sons and daughter cherished these outings.
“Just one more bucket,” they would say to their dad, over and over. Until one bucket became two, then three. Even if one more bucket meant practicing bunting, they were all in.
They loathed bunting.
My sons learned how to switch-hit with those buckets of balls. They learned how to pitch. Even my daughter full-on participated, relishing her tough girl exterior. Even I, though never one to be mistaken for an athlete, hit a ball or two and did my best at fielding groundballs and flies. Though I looked a spectacle, deep down I loved it, even the relentless teasing I endured.
As I watched the five-minute film, I wept. I could relate. And it took me back there, when things were simpler, when life still had forever written all over it.
The memories are so thick with potential and joy and hope.
When you are living them, the days seem endlessly long. As my supervisor likes to say, “The days are long, but the years are short.”
So very true.
I was knee-deep in teaching my kids, doing laundry, cleaning the house, cooking meals. I spent some days waiting for them to end, watching the clock until their bedtime which turned into me time. I would curl up with my Bible and my journal, outside on the patio, or in the bathtub with music and a glass of wine.
And I would give myself a pat on the back for making it through another day. Life was so hard.
Or was it?
Little did I know, those were the easy days, days when my three kids could be somewhat controlled and still adored their parents.
Eventually, days at the park ended. Even when the rest of the family would go, I had grown weary of things that were taking place away from the park. My marriage was crumbling and I was exhausted from the fight.
If I go back there, I can cling to regret like my kids clung to a fly ball. It has been a painstaking process to let go of it all and my lack of letting go is costly. It cost Jesus everything to release me from it. And it cost me everything to hold onto it.
“I will restore the years the locusts have eaten” is one of my favorite verses, one that I pray over myself often.
The wasted time, the regret, the sorrow, the grief. I know He can — and is — redeeming and restoring it all, in His time and for His purpose.
I am thankful for “The Bucket” and that I am able, but for a few moments, to bask in the glory that was. Days filled with splashes of sunshine, baseballs and bats, and one wonderful hit after another.
Days I would now give anything to go back and visit just one more time.
Beautiful piece. It made me think of a podcast I heard with Norman Lear, who went through some very nigh highs and some very low lows in his life. He named his autobiography Even This I Get to Experience. Rather than focus on regrets, he saw the value and fortune in the hard times. To a degree, I’m sure that’s the beauty of hindsight, but even just trying to maintain that attitude during the rough patches or missed opportunities we all have has a therapeutic effect. It can be much easier said than done, but we can generally choose whether to wallow in regret or wiggle out of the mud and keep plugging.
Yes, what a time it was! Park days, museum days, picnics, hikes for us, but the memories are precious and like you said, hard, waiting for nap time, bed time, just for a break; but oh so much simpler. Glad you watched the short clip, I was hoping it resonated.