The Glove
For the past ten years, I have been searching for one of my baseball gloves. It was a nearly brand new Rawlings infielders gold glove (top-of-the-line for its time)I bought it used from a friend before my senior baseball season had ended, and I was still working it in by the time I left for the Provo MTC. But that was the last I ever saw of it.
After returning home from Japan, it took a while to gather all my personal belongings, and the glove was the only major thing I couldn't find. I searched the attic for hours at a time during my school breaks, discovering little things here and there, but always missing the prize. And so it became a long-standing joke that whenever mom and dad were in the attic, I would ask if they found my glove or not. I increased the frequency of my questioning as they drew nearer to moving, because they spent a lot of time up there. But still no luck. I still had my original Rawlings glove, but years of Oregon rain and the countless turning of double-plays had it screaming for retirement.
So come today, when I arrived to help load stuff in the truck on the hottest June day ever to scorch the valley, Dad showed me some stuff in the garage that belonged to me, and then told me to come into the house to look at something. I had no idea what it could be. He started out by telling me that he had cleared out everything from the attic (in 115 degree heat), and there was still no sign of the glove. He looked and re-looked and looked again to no avail. As he was about to leave the attic for good, he felt he needed to check one more place. So he got his flashlight and checked under the floorboards by the heating duct. And there it was, all alone, completely out of human sight but safely hidden and preserved.
The moral of the story is to never give up on the prodigal glove; there is always hope that he will find a way home . . .
After returning home from Japan, it took a while to gather all my personal belongings, and the glove was the only major thing I couldn't find. I searched the attic for hours at a time during my school breaks, discovering little things here and there, but always missing the prize. And so it became a long-standing joke that whenever mom and dad were in the attic, I would ask if they found my glove or not. I increased the frequency of my questioning as they drew nearer to moving, because they spent a lot of time up there. But still no luck. I still had my original Rawlings glove, but years of Oregon rain and the countless turning of double-plays had it screaming for retirement.
So come today, when I arrived to help load stuff in the truck on the hottest June day ever to scorch the valley, Dad showed me some stuff in the garage that belonged to me, and then told me to come into the house to look at something. I had no idea what it could be. He started out by telling me that he had cleared out everything from the attic (in 115 degree heat), and there was still no sign of the glove. He looked and re-looked and looked again to no avail. As he was about to leave the attic for good, he felt he needed to check one more place. So he got his flashlight and checked under the floorboards by the heating duct. And there it was, all alone, completely out of human sight but safely hidden and preserved.
The moral of the story is to never give up on the prodigal glove; there is always hope that he will find a way home . . .
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