Cheering You Home

With my feet planted firmly, I awkwardly held the bat. With two award-winning coaches in my presence and no shortage of encouragement, I swung the bat—and missed. I planted my feet again and prepared for the softball that was about to be tossed in my direction. “Scoot up on the bat!” I tried to follow the instructions, but somehow that only made me feel more awkward. The well-loved black aluminum bat teetered in my hands.

“Watch the ball!”

I did. I watched it fly right past me.

Again, the pitcher held the ball and prepared to throw underhanded to me. Again, I missed. But oddly enough, even though there were great mathematicians in my midst, no one called me out. So I stood there, staring at this pitcher whom I loved dearly, waiting for him to release the ball once more. My feet were planted on the cement square that marked home plate. The ball was in the air, and this time, as the cheering echoed in my ears, I swung. I watched the bat meet the ball.

Contact.

The ball dropped not too far from my path to first base, which was marked by a large evergreen tree. That evergreen had grown quite a bit since the previous year, and it was increasingly easier to hide in. But it sufficed as first base. And when I reached it, the crowd—which included my three uncles, my parents, my grandparents, and my siblings—went wild.

Some kids grow up with cousins. But I grew up with the uncles.

Sundays were among my favorite days: church in the morning, Grandma’s roast beef for lunch, and then, when the weather was nice and the uncles were home, a game of baseball in the front yard. The increasingly expanding pine tree was always first base. The lanky silver maple was second. And the sprawling spirea next to the house was third. I’m confident there were a few Monday mornings when my father, grandfather, or one of the uncles woke up a little stiff, but my heart was always so full.

Those three Wendt boys were my uncles. They were star athletes in our corner of the world who loved sports and excelled in several areas. Two of the three never married and had plenty of time—and plenty of heart—to become a couple of my biggest fans, at least in baseball, soccer, and croquet. Two of them had the red hair that marked them clearly as brothers. And two of the three became well-loved high school coaches who spent much of their lives in classrooms. Eventually, after teaching and coaching in Iowa and each spending a stint in Africa, one landed in Minnesota and one landed in Mississippi, where they spent many years pouring into students who needed a little extra love.

I’m not sure I realized how blessed I was to call them my uncles when I was that young girl who couldn’t figure out where her hands should go on that old bat.

But I do now.

I remember the first Christmas when the weather prevented me from traveling to northwest Iowa. There was a lump in the back of my throat for most of the day. My then-boyfriend assured me that we would visit Iowa soon, but I knew that missing Christmas meant missing Uncle Dick. He would already be traveling back to Mississippi by the time the blizzard lifted, and I wouldn’t be able to see him.

As I expected, we were able to go home for Martin Luther King Jr. weekend, but it would be another six months or a year before I would see Uncle Dick again.

What I didn’t know then was the life he was carving out in the hearts of the people around him in Simpson County, Mississippi. I heard stories about his friends, his church, and his students, but I didn’t fully understand the commitment he had made to the community where he lived.

I didn’t know that just as he had taken the time to encourage and coach me, he had done the same for hundreds of others. I didn’t know the hours he spent building programs like cross country and soccer, or teaching classes like chemistry, physics, and math. I didn’t know how many young people would carry something of his influence with them long after they left his classroom or his team.

To say that I’m proud of him would be an understatement. To say that I feel privileged to be his niece doesn’t begin to express how blessed I am. And to say that I’m thankful to be among those fortunate enough to have been coached by him still doesn’t fully capture what a gift it has been to have him in my life.

It’s funny. I remember many times nicking the softball just enough to get myself to the pine tree, and maybe a few more times standing out by the maple. But I remember fewer times standing at the bush and looking toward home plate. Maybe that’s because I never was the best athlete. Or maybe it’s because so much of life is lived simply trying to swing the bat and make it to first. It takes a lot longer to round the bases and make it to third. But when you’re standing at third, looking toward home, the view is different.

My uncle Dick—Coach Wendt—in some ways is standing at third right now.

Life is short. And sometimes we unexpectedly round third and realize that the next base we will take is home.

This past week has been a tough one for us Wendts. With a new diagnosis, we are praying for a miracle for Uncle Dick, but we also rest knowing that he has given his life to Jesus.

I find myself thinking back to that little girl standing at home plate, awkwardly holding an old aluminum bat, surrounded by people who believed in her even when she kept missing the ball. I know now how many others have benefited from Coach Wendt’s encouragement, his guidance, and his willingness to cheer people on. I know now that he invested in countless students, inviting them to plant their feet, watch the ball, and take another swing. And I know now that he taught many people more than science and math, more than cross country and soccer. He taught them, simply, that they were worth showing up for.

And as he stands at third, the crowd is going wild.

All those students and colleagues, joined by his nieces and nephews, are cheering him on and reminding him of what he already knows: that his life has mattered, that he is deeply loved, and that the investment he has made in others will continue long after he leaves the field.

And when you’re ready to make that final run, Coach, keep your eyes on the plate. We’ll do our best to join Jesus in cheering you home.

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