“Mom, would you start practicing with me at 5 a.m.? I’ve figured out if I practice an extra two hours every day except for Sunday, in only one year I will have gained over 600 hours of extra practice time.” Slate is an aspiring baseball catcher who is very much a student of the game. His personal discipline, from reading his Bible all the way through to baseball, is intense, so the question didn’t surprise me.

First of all, I am not a morning person.
Second of all, I know next to nothing about baseball.
Third, I thought it would last two or three early mornings, max.

words + photographs TAMMY STEARNS

But when your 15-year-old, teenage son asks to spend time with his mother, “Absolutely,” I say, as I frantically search the internet for catching drills.

We are now going on six months. Six months of waking up at 4:45 in the morning with my son by my bed. “Hey, Mom. Mom. It’s almost time to practice. I’ll meet you outside.” Our deal is he has to wake me up. If he doesn’t wake me up, it doesn’t happen. He has woken me up every single morning since that first day. Rain or shine, dark or light, we meet together outside with me throwing baseballs to him and him catching them. Over and over again.

The drills are relatively simple to master and yet the discipline comes in the repetition. He catches. I throw. And in the quiet of the morning with only the sound of the ball on his glove, I have witnessed my son in a way that has been one of the greatest blessings a mother could behold. He doesn’t know it. He thinks these early mornings are a struggle for me, a sacrifice. In reality, they are simply a gift. A gift of precious time as the sands of time quickly seem to fall through my fingers.

During these mornings, I am often taken back to his beginnings. Slate was a surprise to us. Our family of four was complete, so we thought, until I did an ultrasound on myself. (Yes, literally scanned myself, evaluating the image on an ultrasound machine and found out I was pregnant with 8-week-old Slaton.) Our daughter, Taellor, was 13 years old at the time and our oldest, Devon, was 17. It’s one thing to have an “unexpected pregnancy;” it’s a completely different thing to have to tell your teenage children you have an “unexpected pregnancy.” Even in a marriage of 19 years, it was “unexpected.” Shocking to me. Travis was so incredibly excited. I was not. I had seen a glimpse of the horizon of the empty nest, and as much as I love my children, I was excited. I quickly saw that glimpse dissipate.

Seven months later, at 27 weeks, we gave birth prematurely to Slate. I would love to say by that time, I was excited about this unexpected child. But truthfully, it wasn’t until he coded for the second time, when I knew I wanted this child. Later, God would let me share this story with another mother with an unexpected pregnancy whose situation was identical to mine. As I told her then, “I couldn’t imagine life with him then. Now, I can’t imagine life without him.”  He was born at 2 pounds, 2 ounces. I couldn’t even ask if he would make it home. My parents would go daily and stand outside the NICU windows, just watching, not knowing when his last day would be. I learned the true meaning of Romans 8:27, “And He who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.” During those three months when his life hung in such delicate balance, I couldn’t even pray. Not one word. My heart was so heavy. So burdened. So left without the words that could even remotely encompass my thoughts. I wasn’t angry with God. I was simply without the words. Yet, I knew prayer was occurring on my behalf. Interceding far beyond what my mind could process.

We were told Slate would always be small; most likely behind developmentally, especially in eye-motor skills; and he would likely carry the appearance of a preemie. I look at him today and, every day, I am reminded of the faithfulness of our Father. I see a miracle before my eyes each time he catches a ball, hits a homerun, runs the bases. See, to me, it doesn’t matter the level of his play, just the fact he simply can is enough.

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As Slate says, “We serve the God of impossible every single day.”

Slate aspires as many other young teenage boys. The Big Show. Catching in the MLB. His reason, He wants to share Hope with the world and then wants to use whatever platform he is given to help further the ministry at Taellor’s House, the ministry named after his sister who passed away in Nicaragua when he was only five. Today, he plays for the Taellor’s House baseball team, even when given the opportunity to play elsewhere. He spends his time practicing there and in-between practicing, he ministers to the children just like his sister used to do. He coaches the younger kids, ties shoes of the little ones and just plays with children who have very little joy in their world. Only God. As for “the Big Show,” only God knows the path He has for our son. Only God could bring a micro-preemie from the mission field in Nicaragua to such a place as Major League Baseball. As Slate says, “We serve the God of impossible every single day.”

Now, he is still very much a 15-year-old. Every now and then, I have to remind him I am the best pitcher he’s got at 5:00 in the morning, when I’m throwing balls all over the place. Sometimes, I’m feeling a bit feisty myself, I’ll tell him when the call comes up for me to come and coach in the MLB, I’ll put in a good word for him. TS

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