Stripper Batman

There were a few distinct details that something was amiss when the costumed Batman arrived at my Aunt Ginger's house for my cousin's birthday party (at least, I think it was them or it was Jacob). For one, his leggings/pants were way too tight for any normal human being to be wearing, and two, he didn't seem to have any kid-show related props with him. Third, he didn't have that underlying smile that party clowns have. His jaw line protruded from the mask a look of a man in the wrong place. Batman never seemed unsure of himself.

That's what the month of May has been like. I've felt like I'm playing the part of a party clown at the wrong party. Mind you, the Batman was a male stripper sent to the wrong house is somewhat ironic, as it was a random company error. You do what you're told and you wing it. By the end of the afternoon, he was making balloon animals while fighting off the advances and peeks under his cape by the women--my mom included. God sends me out, and I'm looking around thinking, "He must be sending me to another place, right?"

Lot's of rain this month, plans delayed. A sore body. Who needs two good knees, right? A schedule printed directly from the missing floor of Dante's Inferno. Every woman is wearing tank tops and short shorts (hey, not that I minded before, but ladies, do me a solid and cover up every once in a while). I see relationships around me crumbling, holding on like that character in an action movie that's been kicked down a cliff and all you see are their dirty fingernails pressed into the ground, gripping for something tangible. Sometimes, prayers are all I can do and there are times when I think, "Is this all I can do"? I'm underestimating those powerful prayers right now, but sometimes I'd like to just lay my hands on someone, shake them and say, "Will you just wake up?"

There was a moment at church recently. This moment started before service, pretty much even the evening before. I had no intention of going. I selfishly was feeling lousy, unworthy. Today was just not the day to sing or help other kids (my Sunday School class) find their religion. No way I'm showing up for baseball practice. Let it rain!

So, I end up going to church. And this service floors me. It's about loving one another and loving the unlovable. Not really doing my part. I'm in tears from the performances of the youth. Wow, that's courage. Still not up to class, and we end up going and we have 12 kids that morning, about 4 or 5 more than usual. I'm perpetually checking my phone for the weather. I'm sniffing out rain droplets on the windows. Fields still open, phone battery draining. Kids are into the lesson, and we have one kid who is literally showing me how to love the unlovable. In the end, I end up talking to the kid about his video games. I don't question the fact of why he has an R-rated game for his handheld gaming system. Don't judge. Love.

Cruz and I bolt from the church, frantically past the sing that reads, "You are entering the mission field." I almost walk back because I feel a rain drop. I'm actively trying to be late. Maybe they'll cancel on the way. We end up getting there, hustling through warm-ups. During a routine play at first, I quickly turn to remind shortstop to cover second and I feel a thrust against the back of the head. One of the kids thought I was ready and threw the ball, striking me upside the head. I'm rubbing it like it's a brisket. I think I heard a snicker from the dugout. God's laughing too, I'm sure.

Get over it, Cordova