One of my favorite childhood memories is of my summer at baseball camp.
It’s one of the stories I tell a guy I’m interested in because I want him to know I’m not just a cute girl in a dress.
Probably the most interesting part of the story is that I had only been walking for about a year after being told by the doctors I would never walk.
And yet, by age eight, you would find me running through the hallways of my school just for the heck of it. Breathless laughter as I pretended I could play soccer with my classmates and dodge balls in gym class. When I found out there would be a baseball camp offered through my church, I begged my parents to let me go.
I love baseball!
Since when? My mom asked.
I let out an exasperated sigh. Since always Mom! I just wanna go!
Secretly, I think my parents delighted in the fact that I was so eager to try anything and seemed oblivious to people’s perception of me.
For someone so small, I was never afraid of the flying balls. I could never hit them very far but I did my best to get to at least first base before I got caught. I never kept score or thought about winning. I was just thrilled to be living a life different than what was expected of me.
The future seemed uncertain for the first time in my young life and I relished in it. Everyone had been so convinced that I would end up a certain way, my future grim and dark.
But I never considered it to be true. Somewhere deep inside me, I had joy lit on fire, igniting this hope, this certainty that said surely everyone would be wrong.
It’s still there, that joy. Still guiding me and reminding me that people’s perception of me is not as significant as the security of hope I have in Christ.
I don’t know much more about baseball than I did at eight years old but the memory of that summer is the reminder that the hope that lives in me has never been put to shame.