My grandfather is a minister, my father is a pastor, and I’ve worked in a church.

I’ve seen dirt.

After living in four cities and being a part of three church-splits, I have felt my fair deal of pain. I have felt the confusion when friends begin doubting church leadership I have trusted. I’ve felt the anger when people leave the church without explaining why. I’ve felt the world tip sideways when a pastor’s secret life is exposed.

I’ve felt a lot.

But I don’t have to tell you that. The reality is if you are a Christian, you’ve felt a lot too by now.

I had two loves growing up: youth group and softball. I got a high from both of those activities that nothing else gave me.

My church friends were my closest friends. Plus, I thought a few of the older boys in the youth group hung the moon. (Now I married one and I realize he doesn’t even hang up his towel but that’s a different blog…)

But more than all of that, I can truly say that I had an unquenchable fire for the Lord that was growing inside of me at a very fast rate. And church fed that. I even wanted to be a missionary one day thanks to the influence I was gaining at church.

I also loved softball. Scraped knees, dirt under the nails, and horrible tan lines were my fashion statement. I had dreams of playing ball in college, but I quickly realized playing high school ball three months out of the year wouldn’t get me there. It became a year-round effort that required me to play on a travel team as well.

There was one problem: Travel ball meant playing on Sundays in the summers.

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