So there's this guy I know who loves two pastimes above all others: baseball, and deepsea fishing. He's a big guy (6'2", 220#). He always has a lot on his mind, lots of responsibilities, stress--one of those Big Men who are the go-to guys for the rest of us when things get hairy. He does more than his share, all day every day, and rarely complains, but he's crusty, can be brusque or distant when he's busy or uncomfortable. And his politics are pretty awful, overall.
Anyway, he gets invited on a dream trip--fishing in Mexico, wayyyy down somewhere nobody ever heard of, in Baja. All excited, he packs up his gear and sprints for the plane. On the way, though, he makes a stop at a sporting goods store and picks up a couple dozen softballs. Dumps them in his bag, and away he goes. He doesn't even know where, exactly--it's a surprise--just somewhere deep in Baja.
The fishing is excellent, the water calm deep blue, the sun hot, the humidity high, and most of the people in the little village are poor as dirt--Third-World poor, precisely the kind of poor that keeps me out of Mexico, it upsets me so much. They're lined up at the dock when the boat comes in, pleading to be allowed to clean fish or do whatever, to make a few bucks.
My friend tells the fishing guide about the softballs and asks how to distribute them. "Don't just hand them out," the guide advises, "because they'll probably just sell them." He thinks a minute. "Give them to the priest."
So on Sunday morning, here goes our crusty guy, headed up the street to the church with this sack of softballs. But although the church is open, it's empty; he missed the service, or there isn't one, or something. He checks all around, looking for the padre, calls out a couple of yoo-hoos, but nada. Nobody en casa.
OK, so now what? He's standing in this church with a sack of softballs and nobody to hand them over to--what to do with them? He looks around. And around. And then he stashes them under the altar, where only the priest will see them. The crusty guy with the pretty awful politics goes off whistling--and catches the biggest dorado of the season so far, 51 pounds.
Don't you just know there's at least one little kid in that village who hasn't just been hoping, but has actually been praying for a baseball? Just one besbol--can it be wrong to ask God for so little? Kid's a little worried about it, but can't help wanting that ball so badly.
That little kid--I hope, more than one little kid, but one will do--will think God answered his or her prayers.
I'm pretty close to thinking the kid's right.
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