I believe in something bigger than myself, bigger than all of us, all of this. It feels like there is a fine line sometimes between a protective force and a karmic slap in the face, though.
This past weekend, my two year old daughter picked up a baseball and glove for the first time. I was dumb struck with awe watching her throw the ball to her father and trying to figure out how to keep the oversized mit on her hand. I just stared. I could not even move to take a picture. I silently called to my father to come and watch this from wherever he was in the universe. It filled me with joy, wonder, and crushing sadness.
My father taught me to play baseball – how not to throw like a girl; how to field; swing a bat. I remember the pure delight in my father and daughter’s eyes just last summer when she tried on a baseball helmet and dragged around an aluminum bat at the batting cages. She was trying to mimic her old cousins. She sat on Dad’s knee and played peek-a-boo through the ear hole of the oversized helmet wobbling on her head.
“Baseball. It is in her genes,” I thought to myself this weekend.
I am now 38 weeks pregnant. My pregnancy began the week of my father’s 72nd birthday. He died one month later. It is possible this little girl will be born on Father’s Day. I am not sure if I believe in signs, but this one does not feel comforting.