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When I was a kid, I was a pretty decent outfielder for my little league team. I could catch the ball and make a better-than-average throw to keep runners from advancing. It was while playing baseball that I also began to understand a little more about limitations, advantages, and imperfections.

While playing leftfield as a seventh-grader, I realized I couldn’t see the ball as well as I could. Before, I could take off toward the ball as soon as it left the bat. Now, I had a hard time picking it out of the inky Alabama night as it came in my direction. Instead of patrolling the outfield like Gary Sheffield I seemed more to resemble Garry Shandling.

Eventually, it was decided that I needed glasses. I had the usual pubescent reaction to this. (They’re dorky. I’ll look stupid. They won’t help. If I squint, I can almost see the ball!) It was to no avail. I ended up with these cheesy Kareem rip-offs that were all my parents could afford. My stipulation was that I only wore them during games. Accidently walking into traffic because I thought I was next in line to go the bathroom seemed like an acceptable risk to maintain my dignity.

Well, they worked... sort of. As long as it didn’t get too humid or I didn’t get too sweaty or a combination of the two, I was okay. As I hinted at before, I lived in Alabama and I was around thirteen years old. Sweat and humidity were a way of life for me at this point.

I could see the ball a little bit and started making my routine catches again, but there still were times where I flubbed some easy plays. Nevertheless, I made it to All-Stars. The stakes were now high and I didn’t want to goof up for my team. I even hoped it would rain our games out so we wouldn’t play. One night we did play and I took my spot in right field. It was a soggy evening and my Kareems were useless, so I left them in the dugout. I was optically naked and about to learn a big lesson as one hitter came to the plate.

Before one particular pitch, I got down in my crouch as I always did, anticipating the possible hit to my area. Sure enough, the hitter sliced into the ball where I could tell it was going somewhere to my left. That was the last I saw of its flight through the air. A split second after the ball left the bat, I began sprinting toward the foul line and leapt blindly, possibly stretching a couple more inches out of my frame as I fell down onto my side and chest before looking in my glove with the roar of the crowd in my ears and seeing...

Nothing.

Looking behind me, I saw the ball skipping toward a section of the chainlink fence with the sandwich board advertising for a local pest control company. I scrambled to my feet and got to the ball before throwing it back in. I thought I had failed. Their runners advanced. Maybe they scored. I don’t know. I had failed to catch the ball and it was due to the fact that I had imperfect eyesight.

Upon returning to the dugout, a curious thing happened. My coach and teammates were congratulating me. Apparently, I had come thisclose to making a Sportscenter-worthy highlight catch. Many thought I had actually gotten to it somehow, and that was where the roar of the crowd had come from. Somehow, I had impressed people within failure.

Being older now, I understand why not catching the ball wasn’t seen as a failure, but a near-awesome play. I understand why my dad was proud of me as he sat in the stands. I also understand a little bit more about imperfections. I’m good at finding the things that are wrong and, if God fixed them, knowing I’d be able to serve him so much better. If only I were granted more money, more talent, more athletic ability, more intelligence, etc., I could do wonderful things for Him. Of course, this is more of a comment on my own pride rather than having the glory go to someone else.

I love the fact that Jesus hung around the people with imperfections and said they actually were closer to having it right than the upper echelons of society. (Hey! Did you see that lady who put in two cents just after you gave a hundred dollar bill, Mr. Religious Teacher? Her heart is closer to the kingdom of heaven than yours. She’s given everything!) I can only imagine how this irked the religious establishment. The upside-down ways of Jesus were so contrary that concepts such as giving, beauty, power, and love were redefined.

“As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things.” Ecclesiastes 11:5 reminds us that we are created for a specific reason, perceived imperfections and all. This is a tough passage because it requires the faith to believe that somehow a handicap is able accomplish things for a holy and mighty God.

Because of my nearsightedness, I learned a valuable lesson on that ballfield about simply giving your all. When I take my glasses off, lights at night form this beautiful kaleidoscope of shapes and colors those with “perfect” vision are unable to enjoy. I’ve got a bum knee from numerous sports injuries, but it makes me take things a little slower and enjoy time playing on the floor with my 11-month-old daughter. I’ve learned to take joy in the “perfect” imperfections of how my Maker has created me.

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