Growing up, baseball was my life. I played every chance I could. If I wasn’t playing baseball, I was watching it. If I wasn’t watching baseball, I was talking about it. I had a vision for my life and I was going to play in the MLB. So I thought, anyway.
My 8th grade year was the first that I could play on the school team. I can’t remember how many games we were into the season, but this particular night, I wasn’t in the starting lineup. Late in the game, the coach told me to warm up; he was subbing me in. A teammate and I started our warmup tosses. One particular throw came a little faster than I was expecting and I didn’t get my glove open in time. The ball hit the side of my glove, sending excruciating pain through my hand and up my arm. I told no one. Coach still put me in the game. I made a few plays and went 1-1 that night.
That was the last game I played that year. I had broken my hand. My 8th grade season was over. No big deal, there’s always next year.
I didn’t play high school ball during my freshman year, but I had every intention of playing on a summer league team. Then, 3 weeks before summer ball, I broke both of my arms. My 9th grade season was over.
My sophomore year, it was the night before our first game and at the end of practice, I wasn’t feeling well at all. I could barely eat dinner, because I had so much pressure around my throat and chest that I struggled to swallow. I went to bed to sleep it off. Around 2am I woke up fighting to breathe. Not only that, I was experiencing the worst pain in my chest that I had ever experienced in my life. Dad didn’t wait on an ambulance. He put me in the car and raced to the hospital. I remember telling Dad that I thought I was going to die.
After 5 days in the hospital, doctors concluded that my lung had developed a weak spot and was leaking air into my chest, around my heart, neck, throat, and back. They said no more baseball. My 10th grade season was over.
I had worked so hard to play baseball and it was taken from me. I was broken. I thought I was meant to play baseball. I began to plead with God, “What am I here for? I’m a good guy. Why is this happening to me? Show me what I’m supposed to do.”
A few months later, Dad randomly told me that there was a guitar under his bed.
To this day, it’s still overwhelmingly clear that God answered my prayer. I was not meant to play baseball my whole life; He had a better plan for me. God was trying to get my attention and show me, but I didn’t want to listen. It took 4 years of pain and shattered dreams for me wake up.
God wants to use you. He has a plan for you. How is God trying to get your attention? Maybe it’s time to change your focus and look for the signs He’s giving you.
What has God used in the past to get your attention? Share in the comments!