I have often thought about why I'm so interested in baseball. It's definitely not anything about the game itself. Like other sports, other than playing, and the emotional attachments of being a fan of certain teams, I actually find the game kind of boring. I long ago decided the answer was in the numbers. Everything in baseball is measured, and a statistic is placed on every event and even some non-events. The numbers by themselves mean nothing to me. I'm not a statistician or a mathematician. I failed my last semester of Calculus. I decided what the numbers provide is an explanation for what is happening on the surface. Being able to understand what you're seeing using these numbers offers the ability to reasonably predict future outcomes. Having the ability to analyze this data and understand it's significance offers a feeling of control over what otherwise seem like a series of random events. It's oddly comforting.
I think one of the most troubling aspects of the human condition is the acute awareness of an utter lack of control. Despite our willingness to elect leaders and construct organizations, the fact remains, nobody really has control. We're all just sort of mimicking each other and faking it. There are far more unknowns than answers. Some deal with this by turning to a religion, placing varying levels of responsibility for outcomes at the will of a higher power. Some suggest everything is left to random chance. Whatever you believe, there is one looming certainty awaiting all of us, and we all know it. This physical existence is going to end one day. That knowledge and that lack of control can be maddening. Many have questioned the point of it all, and many have attempted to give reason. I've just assumed with such a lack of control, lack of answers, other than the inevitable that awaits us all, it's probably insignificant what you stand for and what you believe. The real value is what you've created, what you're ready to leave behind. That's really all you can control.
The amount of love sent my families way in the past 36 hours has been overwhelming. I think it speaks to how much my grandparents gave. They never had much, yet they gave not just to me, not just to family, and not just to friends. They gave to people to which they had no obligation. I watched how well they treated complete strangers. I watched people come to their Church, unable to pay bills, or pay for medication, and my grandparents gave. They gave to each other. My grandfather, when diagnosed with cancer, leaned on my grandmother for support, and the strength, and motivation to fight. As my grandmother's health declined, my grandfather gave her the same treatment. The result was more time with each other, and for us, more time with them than I could have ever hoped, and far more than was predicted by the doctors. They gave us a tremendous example.
Seven months ago, my grandmother was released from the hospital after suffering a near fatal stroke. The change I witnessed in her from that time on was incredible. Every day tasks had become a struggle and the outlook for a significant recovery was somewhat bleak. However, she continued to progress, and all during the process, she joked and laughed more often than I could ever remember. I believe the extra time allowed her to develop an even greater appreciation for everything she had experienced and overcome in her life. She was able to spend precious time with her husband, with her 6 children, and 14 grandchildren, with a pride in what she had created, what she had passed on, and what she would leave behind. She was satisfied with what she controlled.
Shirley Perry will be missed greatly, but there is a piece of her that lives on in every one of us she influenced.
Love you, grandma.
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