The snowy, cold, icy winter continues to deliver a vortex driven series of punches to the gut of most of the United States.  The Narnia–like, wintry grip refuses to yield to spring.

However, the passing of each day will eventually make the Abominable Snowman melt into all things spring – among them trees budding, flowers blooming, and grass growing.

Instead of white our eyes will begin to see green and a pallet full of colors.

After all didn’t the furry little groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, see his shadow forecasting six more weeks of winter when February clocked in?

A tale-tale sign of spring in the never ending flow of sports programming is the advent of the baseball season, with teams now at their respective training camps in warm weather climates as they prepare for the start of another major league baseball season.

It’s time for me to be vulnerable.

In her book, Daring Greatly, Dr. Brene Brown dispels the cultural myth that vulnerability is a sign of weakness and argues that it is our most accurate measure of courage.  She defines vulnerability as uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure.

Cheers to emotional exposure!

As a young boy and subsequently as a teenager, I could not wait for the start of the baseball season.

Allow me to clarify, I could not wait for the start of MY baseball season. 

Although I enjoyed following my hometown team, the Pittsburgh Pirates, I was immersed in my childhood dream of becoming a major league baseball player.

Mine were the dreams where anything seemed possible. Anything!

Without sounding bigheaded, my love for the game and my skill level certainly gave me a reasonable hope that my dream was within reach.

In my own opinion, as well as others, I was assuredly better than average and toeing the line between exceptional and great.

• I talked about the “mile long driveway” I would have when I got my first contract.
• I tossed a rubber baseball against a cement wall and played catch with myself for hours to hone my defensive skills.
• When I came to the plate I mimicked the batter’s box antics of my hero, Roberto Clemente.
• My coaches knew the game and infused in each of us as players to play it correctly.
• They also instilled in us a respect for and a love of baseball.
• I lived for ball practice and game day.  When I wasn’t playing organized baseball, I was playing pickup games with my friends.
• I ate, drank, and slept baseball!
• It was, and still is, part of the tapestry of my life.

In my mind’s eye reaching this dream was not only possible, I never entertained the thought it wasn’t. It was as sure as the sun rising on any given day.

With no prior announcement and certainly without any fanfare, my dream died (or so I thought) and I failed to give it a proper funeral.

Years later, while sitting in the office of a marriage counselor, I was hit by an unsuspecting two-by-four in the back of the head.  It was a sober reminder that the dream never died. The dream was still alive and had to be reconciled.

As I recall, I was on the “hot seat” for one particular counseling session. It was my turn to look within, to allow God to resurrect what was buried so that it could rise to the surface where I would be able to address some things that I honestly didn’t know were there.

I was asked to think of a time I was disappointed or something I regretted.  At first, nothing came to mind.  Thom, the counselor, gently pressed.  Still nothing surfaced.  Silence begat silence.

To add to the tension of the moment, two other counselors in training were in the room (with our permission) observing the skills they would soon put into practice.

Enter the two-by-four, stage left.  Whack!

The buried dream began the journey from the tomb to the light of day.  My personal Lazarus heard the voice of Jesus shouting “come forth”.  He stepped out of his resting place as the burial cloths began to unravel and come off.

With a lump in my throat making it difficult to speak and with tears flowing down my face, the road to an inner healing began.

Slowly, I began to recall the events of the spring of 1975, the spring I graduated from high school and a few months before the start of my first year of college.

Spring meant one thing to me – the start of baseball season.

It would not be long before I heard an umpire yell “Play Ball”!

As the previous eight springs morphed into summer, baseball is what I did.

However, that spring was different.  I registered for American Legion ball where those considered the cream of the crop took to the baseball diamond.

It was a better than average chance to be noticed by scouts.  My chances were enhanced as one of my teammates was on the radar of several pro organizations.

I began to describe to the counselor arriving for the first day of practice that year at a ball field in Port Vue, Pennsylvania.

I looked toward the dugout and scanned the field observing other players.  In my head a dialogue was taking place, a literal tug-of-war between my desire to continue playing and what I perceived was my reality.

I asked to talk with the coach and caved into what I thought was real. If I had tried out for the team and did not make it I would have been disappointed, but could have lived with the result.

Without ever participating in a practice or swinging the literal as well as proverbial bat, I quit.

I did not even try out.  

I resigned myself to an alleged fact. 

I remember walking away never to look back and feeling an ache in my heart. 

I gave up baseball cold turkey!

The dream died. 

I was already working during the evenings while finishing my senior year, a prelude to the two full time jobs plus mowing lawns (about 85 hours a week) that awaited me once I graduated.

How could I manage any more in my schedule?

I made the decision to quit based on “having” to work that summer. I never thought of any alternatives.

Looking back, I am certain that was the day Hope Deferred began to paint on my wall and made my heart sick.

It certainly wasn’t a day where a Desire Fulfilled became a tree of life (refer to Proverbs 13:12).

As the oldest of five children and as a parent myself, I now appreciate the many sacrifices my parents made for their children.  They helped with college as best they could.

The thought I had was this – it was incumbent upon me to earn as much money as I could the summer before entering college.   I lay no blame on them.

I alone am responsible for the decision to walk away, to quit.

I relinquished the opportunity to at least attempt seeing my dream fulfilled.  Instead, I handed over the keys to the car to another driver and surrendered my right to choose.

There was no closure. 

Why do I go down this road with you, sharing these intimate and personal thoughts about a time in my life that was painful?

You certainly have better things to do than listen to another’s supposed sad story.  Actually, it’a not a sad story at all; it’s now a story of victory and of overcoming!

I share this bread crumb laced trail with you as I sense I am not alone; I have plenty of company.

My gut tells me you too may have had your share of “hope-deferred-makes-your-heart sick” experiences.  Maybe you have taken too many pitches to the head, arms, and legs.

As you read this I have a hunch you could fire off any number of of scenarios or memories that have taken you down roads you never imagined.  Welcome to the club, as this is our common bond.

Perhaps you have recovered from it.  Perhaps not.  Only you know if the jury is still is still out and in deliberation.

There may be thoughts swirling around in the spin cycle of your mind.  Thoughts like:

• “What’s all this Martin-Luther-King-“I-have-a-dream” stuff being talked about?”
• “I have enough to deal with and don’t care to have another thing put on my pile.”
• “All this dream stuff is for kids, I have adult responsibilities now”.
• “Don’t bug me, leave me alone”.
• “I have a job.  It pays the bills.  I come. I do my thing. I go.  I repeat the cycle the next day and the next and the next.  It’s a living (ha…ha…ha).  It’s a steady income.  It’s SECURE.”

All that may fit the bill.  I understand.

However, buried beneath the icy ground of your long winter is a seed of something deposited long ago that is aching to crack the thawing soil of spring and emerge.

Why not give it a chance?

Why not let the light of day bring it into focus?

I am here to tell you that you do not have to live on a broken field of dreams.

My field of broken dreams has plagued me for a good portion of my adult life.  It has had its toll on my career without question – a career that resembles an amusement park, “bumper car” ride more than it does a train rolling down the track.

However, it is not the end of my story. 

With Thom’s gentle, God breathed, prodding admitting vulnerability was the first step.  The tears I shed that day came from a place of regret, but they also began to wash me from the inside out.

“I may not be where I want to be” as the saying goes, but “I ain’t where I used to be”.  Thank God!

Want to know a secret?

A new dream was planted in me about the same time I relinquished my baseball dream, making its deposit in my heart in stealth like, under-the-radar fashion waiting to be awakened.

I connected with a TV character, John Boy of The Walton’s fame.  It might sound silly, it matters not to me.

He told stories.  He was the oldest of a truck load of children.  He had something interesting to say.  I could relate. His narrative invited me into another world.

The seed long ago deposited silently grew.  Years later, after much encouragement by many people, the desire to write surfaced.

Although in its infancy, the dream of writing has made its way onto my stage.  It is now up to me to continue walking in it.

My chances of stepping onto a major league ball field and sitting in a dugout are now left to my imagination or winning some “lucky-fan-gets-to-mix-it-up-with-his-favorite-team” contest. Who knows, stranger things have happened!

If you find that your car too has veered off the road and over an embankment, my encouragement to you is this:

• Acknowledge and grieve the loss.
• Seek restoration.
• Look deep inside and allow God to help you recover what was lost…AND,
• Heed the umpire’s call to, “Play Ball” in the new things He may be showing you.

Freedom is possible. To quote the line from the 2012 movie, Homerun:

• Get back in there.
• Step up to the plate.
• Hit the ball.
• NOTHING GREAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU HOLD BACK!

What dream may have been tossed by the wayside in your life that is waiting to be brought back to life or serves as a springboard to a much greater dream?

Please feel free to share in the comments.

 Today is my day 20,528.  I will walk it out in courage by daring greatly.