Who does not love baseball? Muscles in uniform, the crack of the bat, even the overpriced dog and suds are all good reasons to hang out at the ball park. But if your team has a goose egg on the scoreboard in the bottom of the ninth, the love affair with the game may lose its luster temporarily.
In my world there are more shut ins than shut outs. My husband has been on crutches for two weeks after suffering a nasty sprain on a job site. He has been laid up and, in my infinite good fortune, I’ve been on duty as his ” beckon call girl.” He beckons, he calls, he rings a bell, anything to get my attention that his water needs freshening, his vitamin infusion is overdue, his pillows need fluffing or the fifty shades of his purple toes are down to forty-nine and closer to mauve. (Since when is he a doctor? I guess that sometime while I was raising the kids and teaching college and “not letting myself go to pot,” he must have snuck away to med school since he has become such an expert! Either that or while he has been bedridden with his laptop, he has been carrying on an affair with my BFF, Google and myWebMD. ) You decide.
There is a theme here – just trust me. Valentine’s Day falls this week and it is a tradition within our church fellowship to visit the shut ins and gift them with a bag chock full of goodies. What could I contribute? I scoured Pinterest boards and some mighty old craft magazines but nothing got my creativity flowing. I wanted a useful gift that would say “You are special, ” I needed to stay within a budget, and I needed 100 of these little gems. So I resorted to old faithful, the dollar store. I traipsed up and down each aisle looking for that perfect something, all the while corralling the buggy with only three obedient wheels, a trick even if you are not on a mission from God. About to give up and accept the shut out, VOILA! there they were, adorable ankle socks in packs of three, perfect to honor the sweet elderly men and women whose bodies have done to them what my errant shopping cart was doing to me.
I barricaded the aisle with my wayward-wheeled cart and began to clean the pegs of the funkiest, the craziest, the most childish socks.
An hour later, exhausted and almost within budget, I rammed that cart in timeout (headfirst in the helium balloon blower-upper section) and pranced to my car humming Donna Fargo’s “I am Woman Hear Me Roar” and feeling like Rocky Balboa on a good day. Plastic bags swinging from my elbow, I knew I’d hit a home run for the shut ins.
Later, I sat beside my lame husband, oohing and aching over his self-proclaimed rapid recovery and rolled and tied each pair with ribbon and prayer.