Charlie Blackmon made me cry last week.  After 14 magical years, I watched him play his last game.  He ran to his spot at center field with his number 19 mowed into that immaculate green grass, and every fan in the stadium got on their feet and applauded.

With his huge brown beard glistening in the Colorado sunlight, I watched him lift his hat to the crowd, and although we never met, I felt I was saying goodbye to a friend.

Charlie would probably say he wore sunglasses that day to see the ball better, but I’m sure behind those glasses, he had tears like me.

My brother Eric was in that crowd cheering with his family, and my son David was there too with his new friends from college.

But me—well, I couldn’t go.

I watched a recording of it two days later.

Why?  Because there were meatballs to cook.

That Sunday night, the same night as Charlie’s last game, Deb and I had a commitment to serve food at the Salvation Army in downtown Colorado Springs.

Before you feel even slightly impressed, it’s important I point out that us serving at the shelter is all my wife’s doing.  She calls the volunteers and arranges for people to bring the food.  I just show up, but as we prepared for the evening—I’m embarrassed to say—I strongly considered not showing up.

My mind raced through scenarios and questions.  Could I still go to the game?  Deb could get someone else to take my place, right?  Am I missing one of the most important games in Rockies history?

The questions pecked away at me like woodpeckers on my chimney.

Then I remembered what I had read just the morning before.  We were going to irrigate that day on my grandpa’s farm.  Everyone wanted to get an early start, but I had just enough time to read my Bible before heading out with my shovel.

I sat up in bed and turned to my bookmarked spot in Romans.  The early morning light lit up the room enough to see the words.

“Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice. . .” (Romans 12:1).

“Sacrifice”—that word jumped into my memory and silenced the pecking questions.  It made not driving up to Coors Field feel somehow easier.

Sometimes, I thought, God wants us to make sacrifices, and missing that game was one of them.

In my mind, this was a grit your teeth and bear it kind of sacrifice, but I’d find out later that wasn’t exactly what God was thinking.

Eventually, we carried our hot meatballs into the Salvation Army dining room.  Our daughter Joy was there to help along with her cross-country teammates, and Deb talked to them.

“Ladies, remember to smile,” she said.  “Many of these people are really struggling.”

When 5 o’clock came—about the time Charlie was probably having his postgame interview—the guests poured in, and we were busy.  I was filling glasses with grape Kool-Aid while the girls plopped meatballs into buns and handed out chips.

People smiled and thanked us as they passed.  Tired moms carried trays while toddlers waddled behind.  Veterans went through, quiet and broken.

Then, a door opened, and in walked two teenage girls and a middle-aged woman.  Their bright smiles felt like sunlight, and the reason for those smiles was obvious.  The middle-aged woman was holding a sweet, brown-eyed little girl who had a “Happy Birthday” sash wrapped around her body.  There was a tiara on the birthday girl’s head just to add to the princess aura, and the ladies kept fixing her dress.

“Happy Birthday,” Joy said, looking up at the little girl.  She put meatballs in the middle-aged woman’s plate, a woman who I assumed was the grandma, and the teenagers giggled watching her proudly carry their birthday princess.

They sat down with their food, and I wondered if we should sing “Happy Birthday,” but I was too nervous about embarrassing the family or breaking some kind of rule.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one thinking about singing.

“Mr. Ahnfeldt,” I heard one of the cross-country girls say, “do you think we could sing Happy Birthday?”

It was Paris.  She offered the push I needed.

I asked the manager, and after she said yes, I walked over to the family and asked them.

They nodded, smiles spreading across their faces.

As all of us circled around them, they leaned toward each other giggling, whispering giddy words in Spanish.

Then we started singing.

“Happy Birthday to you. . .” People all over the dining hall heard us, and soon everyone was singing.

“. . .Happy Birthday dear princess. . .”

While we sang, I noticed the little girl staring at me, totally mesmerized, like I had some blinking light on my nose.  I smiled and leaned forward, looking into her eyes, moving my head as I sang.

“Happy Birthday to you!”

We finished, and everyone cheered.  People in the back of the dining hall stood up to applaud, and I was caught up in that little girl’s huge brown eyes.

Charlie Blackmon is famous for saying to reporters, “There’s more to life than baseball.”  Nothing could have illustrated that better than that moment singing around the table.  And if I went to the game, I would’ve missed it.

I’m thankful God is the Author of my story instead of me.  All day He tried to get something through my thick skull.

Being a “living sacrifice” doesn’t have to be as negative as it sounds.

It’s just letting go so the One who knows what He’s doing can take over.  That’s when the real fun begins.  That’s when singing at a homeless shelter feels like freedom and brown-eyed little girls stir up joy.  Yes, it would’ve been great to see Charlie play, but God had something more for me.  Driving away from the shelter that night, I realized I was no longer full of regret for what I missed.  I felt loved and thankful for what I’d gained.

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