A Season Ticket

I went down to the baseball stadium to see the game.  It was a fine day, and from my seat high in the upper deck I could see the city surrounding the park.  I could see the traffic moving through the streets.  I could see the tall buildings all around.  I thought about how my father would have loved this.  I thought about him living in an apartment in one of these buildings and coming down here every day in the summer heat to see the game.  He would have been in heaven.  And when I thought the words “in heaven”, I took a moment to consider them literally.  Maybe he really was somewhere just like this, someplace beyond this life, making his way through the city streets with his ticket and a mitt for catching foul balls.  And if that were so, if there was even a possibility that that were so, then in a way, this really was heaven already, this was a little parcel of heaven, a few city blocks colliding with eternity.  This was what heaven meant to someone and it was here in this life, on Earth.  I sat there high above the field and I smiled at the thought.


4 thoughts on “A Season Ticket

  1. I hope this doesn’t sound like a generic “I didn’t read this post” type of comment, but I absolutely love this.

    I often have philosophical thoughts like this, especially when I see horses (that was my grandfather’s particular heaven).

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Not generic at all. Much appreciated. But don’t worry; we’ll do a reading comp quiz later to make sure you really read the post. Just five multiple choice. No biggie. It’ll take you fifteen … twenty minutes tops.


  2. I just found a comment you made five years ago at my place which if I am not mistaken foreshadows the theme of this dream:

    Sometimes we wish that we could crawl back into these memories and somehow live inside them all over again, not to change things, but just to be there again, to feel the way the air felt different then, to look into the eyes of someone who has long since slipped away, to really savor and appreciate those moments in a way that was impossible the first time around when we had no idea how fragile and transient they were. But the wave of time pushes us farther and father away from these memories. We struggle against the sweep of the wave, straining to reach back and grab a hold of these things. But the wave says, “No. We have to keep going.”
    It’s from a post I wrote and am now re-editing called “The Book as a Sacred Space“.

    Liked by 1 person

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