When I was a young kid, I played Little League baseball. I stunk—my position was deep right field, and I don’t think I had a hit all year. I wanted to quit, but my parents wouldn’t let me, so I stuck it out the whole year—going to practices, going to games, eating sunflower seeds, laughing whenever Raymond Roberts burped or farted (he could do it on command—the command was, “Raymond, burp and fart!”), and I actually had a pretty fun time. But my favorite memory was when my dad took off work early one day to come to one of my practices and we played catch.
I’ve been thinking about playing catch a lot lately. Just the name itself is weird—I mean, you’re throwing the ball half the time. Why is it only called “catch?” Maybe because catching is the important part.
Think about it. Anybody can throw, but without someone to catch you’re just some dude whipping balls around for no reason. You need someone to catch in order for it to be a game, in order for it to be any fun.
What does that say about life, about love, about our pursuit of God…or, perhaps more importantly, His pursuit of us?