Take Me Home From The Ball Game
My father passed when I was 33. I am the youngest daughter of three, but I was very much placed in the role of “son.” My father became my closest confidant, my best friend, and my worst critic. When my dad had a massive heart attack, I was completely bereft.
Of course, my dad being my dad, he left no will, but he did leave verbal instructions for what to do with his body. Instead of a funeral, he wanted his ashes spread in a ballpark. My father adored baseball—especially the Detroit Tigers.
Our first plan was to sneak his ashes into Tiger Stadium, but they tore the original down, so we scrapped that idea. His instructions were to scatter them on “any” baseball field, so we found a beautiful park that was suitable.
I had an idea to play a pickup game on the night we were to spread his ashes. As I came up to bat, I hit the ball, which is a miracle unto itself, and ran like the wind. I had the distinct impression that someone was running after me. I kept giggling and laughing like crazy.
I thought it was my brother-in-law or my new husband. It was as if someone was chasing me in a game of tag. I cried out, “Stop it! Stop it!” in a playful way as I ran the bases until I got to home plate. I finally turned around to see the person who had been chasing me.
My jaw dropped at that point. No one was there. I looked around confused. I looked at my family and said, “Hey guys, which one of you was chasing me?” “No one,” they said. “We were wondering why you were screaming like a madwoman. We thought a bee was chasing you.”
I struggle daily with the concept of a higher being. But I feel, for some reason, that my life has been touched in some way, I just don’t know by what or whom. I do know in my heart that my father was with me on the field that night. Story credit: Reddit / (harryasinpotter)