One night, I dreamt I walked with God down the long road of my life.
Scenes flickered past like an old VHS tape: some good, some rough, and one labeled “1988” —which, respectfully, we do not speak of.
And in every scene, God was right there beside me, carrying this dented aluminum baseball bat with my name scratched into it like a prison shiv.
Finally I asked, "Okay… seriously. What’s with the bat?"
God gave me that look. You know the one. The "I love you, but come on, you already know this" look.
And He said:
“Listen. My child. My beloved.
You do not respond to gentle suggestion.
You do not ‘pick up on hints.’ You do not learn from ‘quiet internal nudges.’ No, no.
You — require percussion.”
I stared at the bat. I stared at the dents. I considered my entire track record of decision-making.
“…Okay, valid,” I said.
I pointed at the biggest dent. “That one… that’s when I—”
“Yes,” He said. Immediately. No hesitation. We do not need to rehash that one.
I pointed at another. “And that one was—”
“Yes,” He said again, even faster.
I pointed at one that looked like He took a full Major League swing.
He didn’t even wait. He just nodded, slow, meaningful, like a man who has seen some things.
And I said, “Alright, but— Are these dents all the times You smacked me in the head?”
And God laughed. Not a soft laugh. A Hah … HAH! The laugh of someone who knows exactly who He is dealing with.
“No, child,” He said. Very gently. Very simply.
“The dents are all the times you survived it.”
And I felt it. Right there. Not in the head. In the ribs.
Because yeah. We’ve been doing this a long time.
I sighed. Looked at the bat. Looked at Him.
“So … did we have to use a bat?”
God just shrugged, like He’s been waiting years to say this line:
“You chose the bat. I just agreed to swing it.”