As the season went on, Andrew wasn't getting much playing time. Occasionally he'd be put in right field. The coaches promised to play him but rarely did. He tried to be strong, but his heart would break every time.

At one point, we had won enough games to qualify for the state finals. One night as they played the remaining, relatively meaningless, regular season game and were losing 12-3, Andrew was still warming the bench. Eventually the coach put him in right field. Then, just before Andrew was due to bat, the coach pulled him out for another batter.

There was my son, batting helmet on, having to trot back to the bench in a game that didn't matter.

I felt a level of anger I had never experienced as an adult.

I got up and went around to the other side of the ball field to nurse my anger. I was thinking of what I was going to say to the coaches. There was no excuse for this!

Then, just as the game was about to end, a guy behind me said, "Andy."

I turned around. He told me his name and started talking. I'm thinking, Look … I'm focused. I'm angry. I'm rehearsing my speech.

"Andy, I just got to tell you," he said, "I hadn't been to church in over 30 years. But my wife started going to North Point, and she started trying to get me to come."

As he's telling me this story, inside I'm thinking, Oh no you don't, Lord. I came over here to be mad! This may be Andrew's last game. Nobody treats my son this way! And you are not going to mess me up with this unchurched person.

He went on and on. The game was over. He shared about how he'd been coming to North Point and had begun to read his Bible, joined a small group Bible study, and his life had changed.

I know I was supposed to be happy, but I didn't want to hear it because I couldn't wait to go over and lecture the coach. But as he talked, I felt like God was embracing me. Remember why you're here. Remember. Remember.

After the game, both teams were supposed to go for ice cream. I was thinking, I'm not going. I can't face those coaches. But Andrew wanted to be with his team, so we got the whole family in the car. I was still steaming; I couldn't even talk.

Nine-year-old Garret picked up on my emotions. "I can't believe the coach," he said, "I can't believe it!"

I can't describe how close I was to losing it, but the reality of the situation finally dawned on me.

By God's grace I said to my family: "Didn't we decide this spring we're not here because of baseball? Right, Andrew? I think that maybe something good will come from this. We can't quit, because this isn't about baseball." And I made myself get some ice cream.

Not long ago I saw one of the coaches and his family in the third row of our church. In a meeting with the coaches and parents at the season's end, the coach praised Andrew for his attitude and said the rest of the team needed to have the same attitude.

But I can't describe how close I was to losing it that night.

Life is brutal on vision. It can cause serious vision leakage. But if we as leaders can live through the stuff of life to maintain a focus on the vision, our people will, too.

Excerpted from our sister publication, Leadership journal, © 2004 Christianity Today International. For more articles like this, visit www.Leadershipjournal.net

The full-length version of this article is available from CT Library.