May 15. Paul White. Paul is an internationally recognized author of Christian nonfiction. He has pastored and taught in several churches and conferences for almost thirty years.
He hosts the Deeper Daily Podcast and talks listeners through the Scriptures. Seeing believers awaken “to the goodness of God’s grace through Jesus is Paul’s greatest passion.” On this date in 1971, young Paul pitched his first Little League Baseball game.
My failures don’t define me; my Father does.
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee heightened my senses, and I realized Dad must be eating breakfast. Still groggy from the restless night, I managed to dress and stumble into the kitchen. I had to make my plea before my dad’s schedule for the day was set.
Being one of twelve children meant I had a father who worked sixteen-hour days, six-to-seven days a week—just to make ends meet. And the infrequent days he didn’t have to work quickly filled with errands.
He looked up from the table, and I said, “Dad, guess what.” I didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m pitching my first game today.” Most of little-league season, I’ve spent warming up in the pitchers’ box. I’d nearly lost all hope of pitching in a game. But after repeatedly hassling my coach, he gave in.
“That’s great son.”
I hesitated hoping for something more.
Nope.
“Dad, you think you can come to the game?”
“Son, I’m expecting to be called back into work this evening. There’s just no way I can take time this morning to watch a ballgame.”
I said I understood, and I tried to understand, but my ten-year-old heart had just been stomped. I didn’t want my dad to watch a ballgame. I wanted him to watch me.
Besides, what difference did it make if I pitched a no hitter if my dad wasn’t there?
Later, I stepped onto the pitcher’s mound and tried to muster up some enthusiasm. After all, I’d worked all season to get to pitch. But it seemed pointless.
I threw a warm up pitch. And then—leaning up against the fence behind home plate— I saw him. My dad.
My heart raced like a thoroughbred, and beads of salty sweat trickled down the side of my face. I tried to concentrate. It’s the arsenal of throws that separates a good pitcher from a great one. I signaled to the coach I was ready. The batter stepped into the batter’s box. I glanced at my dad for a second and then tried to focus on the batter.
Standing on the mound, with 46 feet between me and my opponent, I pictured my four-finger fastball sizzling across the plate.
Strike one.
I’d mesmerize my opponent and my dad with my curve ball.
Strike two.
With only one strike left to go, I’d take the first batter out of the game with my unpredictable slow-moving knuckleball.
But my first pitch sizzled right into the leg of the batter. I felt a churning in the pit of my stomach as the umpire shouted, “Take your base!”
I tried to play it off as an intentional walk and hoped my dad would think it was a strategic pitch. And I did manage to strike out a batter here and there, but things continued to spiral downward.
By the end of the 4th inning, I had no command of the ball. My arm was at the point of blowing out. To keep me from suffering a severe injury, my coach took me out of the game at the bottom of the 5th.
I sat in the dugout and sulked until the game was over. My team never did regain the lead. I had lost us the game and humiliated myself—in front of my father.
While the other team hooped and hollered, “We’re number one!” I shuffled over to my dad doing all I could to avoid eye contact. The word “failure” like a neon light flashed in my mind. As I fought back the tears, I felt the warm embrace of my father’s arm around my shoulder. “You’ll get ’em next time, Son.”
Looking back on that experience, I realize the importance of seeing myself as the Father sees me.
“He predestined us to adoption as sons through Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the kind intention of His will, to the praise of the glory of His grace, which He freely bestowed on us in the Beloved” (Ephesians 1:5-6 NASB).
Have you ever failed at something important? Is that your whole identity now? My failures don’t define me; my Father does.
This story is based on an interview with Paul White, 2020.
Story read by Nathan Walker