At the age of ten, I found myself at home plate, bat in hand, with the score tied and the bases loaded. It was our last chance to win the game. I swung…and missed. The crowd wasn’t very large, but I could hear their collective sighs clearly as my opponents celebrated. I was crushed.
With my head hung low, I returned to the dugout. On the way, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see my dad. At that moment, he seemed to be the only friend I had in the world. He smiled, looked down at me with his dark brown hair and blue eyes, and said, “I know you feel horrible, like the world is coming to an end. But it’s not. The sun will come up tomorrow, and life will go on.”
I wanted to believe him. He had always been right. Sure enough, the sun came up the following day, just as he had predicted. Life moved forward, mercifully ignoring the tragedy that occurred the day before.
At age seventeen, I stood alone in the end zone. Time seemed to stand still as the ball hit both of my hands, and then careened off, landing in the grass. Again, I felt that sturdy hand on my shoulder. I looked up to a head of gray hair. His crystal blue eyes gleamed as he said, “Remember son, life goes on. There will be other chances on other days. The sun will rise again tomorrow. It always does.”
He’d been right so many times before. Through the agony of the hours that remained that day, I hoped and prayed he would be right again. And he was. The sun came up the next day, mercifully ignoring the tragedy of the day before.
At 43, I watched in agony as my daughter missed a shot at the buzzer. Her high school team had suffered defeat, and tears streamed down her cheeks. I hugged her tight. Remembering my father’s words, I whispered, “Honey, it’s not the end of the world. Life goes on. The sun will come up again tomorrow.”
She looked up at me with her misty blue eyes as she fought to hold back her tears. I could see she wanted to believe. Standing nearby was an old, balding father, smiling with pride at his son.
The sun rose again the next day, right on schedule, mercifully ignoring the tragedy of the day before, and returning the smile to my little girl’s face.
One bright, autumn Sunday, I received a phone call. My father had died without me even having a chance at a last goodbye. I was swallowed up by grief, crushed like a lost ten year old again. And then I remembered his words: “It’s not the end of the world. Life goes on. The sun will come up again tomorrow.”
I didn’t want to believe it. I prayed he’d be wrong. How could life go on? How could the sun dare to rise?
But it did, cruelly ignoring the tragedy of the day before.