It's good to be moved to awe and wonder

When my daughter was about 10 she tried out for summer softball at a schoolyard near where she lived with her mother and stepfather in Southeast Portland.

It was a sunny day in April, the field soft from a rain shower. I sat in the stands with her Grandpa Jerry along the first base side, watching the girls go through playing catch, some infield drills and a turn at the plate. Jerry, a congenial man with a shock of wheat-colored hair that curled on his forehead in a way that made him look permanently boyish, chatted with me amiably about sports and goings-on at his bar, a beer-and-shot joint he owned at 52nd and Foster.

I'd been a poor father and a worse husband in my four tries, but Jerry, a fundamentally nice man, greeted me with warmth anyway, true to his nature, a cheerful guy whose life was run by three generations of dominating women yet he had the good sense to go with the flow of it. His strong-willed wife was sensual and smart, so why not?

Part of the heartbreak of a series of failed marriages is that you lose the families you once attached to, the closest thing to normal love and acceptance I'd ever known in my life. Wreckage, everywhere wreckage. And my sweet, resilient daughter had been the first injury in my long march to becoming a whole man.

At ten Stephanie was bright and wise-cracking, very much like her mother and grandmother in her speech cadences and humor. She had hazel eyes and dark hair, skinny, all legs, a quick bright smile. Despite her mother being a college tennis player and me playing sports actively throughout high school and all the way into my 40s, she had no athletic ability at all.

Stephanie took her turn at the plate batting left-handed  and the outfielders instinctively moved in. She was smaller, only 5-5 as a full grown woman even now. Her stance was all stiff knees and pointed elbows.

She whiffed at the first pitch, and the next and the next. A couple of her friends shouted out sweet, pleading encouragement. One of the volunteer coaches sidled up to her to adjust her hands and shoulders, but she still couldn't make contact. Finally the man held the bat with her and she managed a slow grounder to second.

I cried. I had to step away from the bleachers and turn my back to the small collection of parents and grandparents and started heaving dry, choked-back tears. I cried, maybe for the first time in my adult life and certainly the most significant time, not because I was disappointed in Stephanie but because I was so moved by the sight of her, trying, sweetly, to do something she simply couldn't do. She was ten by then and had little background in sports. I hadn't been around to play catch with her or teach her how to hold the bat. Most of the other girls had been playing since they were six. It was too big a gulf in skill level, particularly for a child without much natural ability.

Hitting or not hitting wasn't the point in that moment. I cried because I was so PROUD of her, at her courage, at her willingness to face that situation and still smile and try so bravely. I didn't care that she couldn't hit. She was my little girl. I wanted to march up to home plate and get on my knees and hug her, tell her it didn't matter. I cried because it was so beautiful watching her, being amazed at her strength, her independence, her remarkable energy and spirit.  I called out something encouraging but I don't remember what it was.

What I do remember was being awed by the moment, by the bigness of her heart and spirit, how we have these feelings and moments and they are overwhelming but our soul doesn't have the words to express them. The little that we do, is it enough? I came to the tryout, but I'd missed so many other things. I was filled with humility at the fragile beauty of watching her fail and still be completely herself, still just as beautiful and smart and funny and gloriously herself as she was before she struck out five times. For a long time my life revolved around being good at sports and throwing all my energy into them, and at that field I didn't care about sports at all.

It's good to be moved to awe and wonder, to be carried away with humility at the power of emotions or the grand sweep of your surroundings. We can reach the same level of prayerfulness of spirit with a trip to the ocean, the Grand Canyon or the Columbia Gorge. Or in watching a child play "Silent Night" from a window as Christmas lights dance on the snow. Be moved to tears. And tell someone why you cry at the memory of them in a vulnerable, poignant moment. Soon, for one day your tear ducts will close forever.