I never played competitive baseball, only sandlot. And it wasn’t the kind of baseball you see in the movie “Sandlot.” At least in the movie, they had actual bases, an outfield, and a backstop. The guy who played catcher even had catcher’s equipment! 

No, we played sandlot baseball in an open field. We marked off running lanes to the bases usually made of whatever we could find. We made a line in the grass to represent the pitcher's mound. Home plate was just a space marked out with our tennis shoes. And there was no backstop. 

Sunny Side Market was where I bought my football cards. Lincoln Street Elementary, just down the road and around the corner, is where I went to school. In the middle of the second grade, we moved from a small rural community to the booming metropolis of Red Bluff, California with its 8,000 people!  This was 1966, and I was so scared on my first day at my new  school, I ran back home and threw myself on the bed. “I don’t want to go to school!”

What if the longing for perfect weather, deeper rest, or more beauty isn’t selfish—but sacred? This reflection challenges the idea that desiring “more” means being flawed or spoiled. Instead, it explores how our deepest cravings might actually reflect something divine: a desire to be known, to experience fullness, and to live into the image we were created in. Maybe the problem isn’t that we want too much—maybe we don’t desire enough.

A sharp moment between a parent and child becomes an unexpected lesson in grace. When the words “I forgive you” are offered without excuse or dismissal, they reveal the quiet power of true kindness over surface-level niceness. This reflection explores how pain—though uncomfortable—can be a doorway to growth, healing, and deeper connection.