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Batter Up, Bunnies, and Spring
Spring has a way of arriving with a little bit of everything—bunnies and ballgames, holy days and memories.
This week is one of those that is full—Passover begins April 1, and Easter’s this Sunday. Lots of schools are on Spring Break. For baseball fans, it’s batter up once again—a brand-new season is underway. Something for everyone.
Most holidays stay put, but have you noticed that Easter can fall anywhere between March 22 and April 25?
Easter is what is called a movable feast, which sounds charming until you try to figure out when it actually is. First you have to switch from a solar calendar to a lunar one. The one on your phone, hanging on your wall, or sitting on your desk –the ones we have all agreed to use—won’t help you calculate Easter or Passover.
It’s complicated. If you observe Lent or want to know when Fat Tuesday occurs, you’ll need to take into consideration full moon phases, the vernal equinox, and where the first Sunday fits into all of this. You might need to consult tidal charts. (I made that part up.) For some of us, knowing the exact date matters—chocolate cravings and Mardi Gras costumes do not plan themselves.
Seriously, It seems pinning down the Easter Bunny is not likely to happen. However, many colleges and universities now set Spring Break on a standard week in March, no matter when Easter falls. Some school districts are doing the same. It makes planning easier and creates a predictable pause between the winter holidays and the long stretch to summer.
Baseball’s start day moves around a bit as well, though for more practical reasons. With 162 games to fit in, plus travel days and playoffs, Opening Day almost always lands on the last Thursday of March.
All three of my sons played Little League, and their dad coached, which meant our family calendar filled with signups, tryouts, team drafts, practice schedules, and games. There were hats and uniforms to pick up, mitts to oil, cleats and new bats to buy, and yes, everything needed to be laundered between games. Dinners often meant eating hot dogs from the snack bar. My boys started in T-ball and kept right on going. With ten years between my youngest and oldest, I spent well over twenty baseball seasons sitting on bleachers.
Then came the grandsons, and once again I found myself arranging my life around game schedules so I could be in the stands. I loved it—loved the dust, the chatter, the hot bleachers, the small dramas of childhood competition, the parents and grandparents cheering from the sidelines. From T-ball through the Majors, I logged another decade of Little League and loved every minute of it.
Traditions are like that. We live inside them while they are happening, maybe notice them shifting, and then at some point they become a faded but favorite memory. And somehow, that time has passed.
That is one reason the musical Fiddler on the Roof has always touched me so deeply. I love the whole thing—the music, the struggle, the way it asks us to hold tradition in one hand and change in the other.
I love the song Sunrise, Sunset. Its lyrics speak to me even more today as I look back at my own life and its many chapters. “Sunrise, sunset…Swiftly fly the years. One season following another, laden with happiness and tears … Is this the little girl I carried? Is this the little boy at play? I don’t remember growing older, when did they?” My eyes fill with tears and my throat—well, you know what happens.
My sons and grandsons are grown now. I no longer spend my springs on dusty diamonds. That chapter is over. Swiftly flew those years. My perspective has changed, realizing how quickly time moves. And yet something in me still responds to this time of year. I still feel the rhythm of spring and Easter and children who believe in bunnies and baskets and hidden eggs. I think of little ones learning to hit off a tee and run the bases. I think of parents trying to keep up with the beautiful chaos of it all.
Perhaps that is part of what this season brings—not just warmer weather or shifting holidays, but memory. A reminder that life keeps moving, one season following another, laden with happiness and tears.
As you know, I collect stories. Some are inspiring. Some are poignant. Some carry a lesson. And some I keep simply because they make me laugh. This one about Moe and Sam falls into that last category.
Two ninety-one-year-old men, Moe and Sam, had been friends all their lives. They had also loved baseball all their lives and had even played minor league ball together when they were young.
Now Sam was dying, and Moe visited him every day.
One day Moe said, “Sam, you know how much we’ve both always loved baseball. I have one favor to ask. When you get to heaven—and I know you will—somehow let me know if there’s baseball there.”
Sam looked at his old friend and said, “Moe, you’ve been my best friend for many years. If it’s at all possible, I’ll do that for you.” A few days later, Sam died.
Then, a couple of nights afterward, Moe woke from a sound sleep to a blinding flash of white light and a voice calling, “Moe… Moe…”
“Who is it?” Moe asked, sitting bolt upright.
“Moe, it’s me. Sam.”
“Come on,” said Moe. “You’re not Sam. Sam just died.”
“I’m telling you,” said the voice. “It’s me, Sam.”
“Sam? Is that really you? Where are you?”
“I’m in heaven,” Sam said, “and I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Tell me the good news first.”
“The good news is there is baseball in heaven. Better than that, all our old buddies who went before us are here too. Better still, we’re all young again. It’s always spring, it never rains or snows, and we can play baseball whenever we want—and we never get tired.”
Moe said, “That is fantastic. Wonderful. Beyond my wildest dreams. But what’s the bad news?”
Sam answered, “You’re pitching next Tuesday.”
Who knows when we’ll get called to pitch. In the meantime, here we are—spring has sprung in all her glory, full of holy days, school breaks, baseball, memories, and the unmistakable reminder that time does not stand still.
So, whether your week holds worship, family gatherings, chocolate bunnies, spring travels, a ballgame, or simply an awareness that another season has turned, I hope it brings you joy—and perhaps a quiet moment to pause and remember the seasons and traditions of your own life.