THREE ANGELS BROADCASTING NETWORK DEVOTIONAL.
An Act of Compassion.
By Hal Steenson
April 20th, 2026
“Finally, all of you be of one mind, having compassion for one another; love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous; not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary blessing, knowing that you were called to this, that you may inherit a blessing.” 1 Peter 3:8–9
Mollie and I hadn’t been to a Little League baseball game in years, so naturally, we were unfamiliar with the updated rules like coaches being pitchers, and players throwing the ball to the pitcher to stop any player from running to the next base.
However, some age-old “standards” popped up—like the young man in our stands that was suffering from the delusion that he was coaching both teams, yelling out orders to every kid! No matter what the base coaches said, he thought he was in charge. Never mind how they decided a close call, he verbalized his own opinion—loudly. It was disgusting, and I wondered what his son must think of him. Things haven’t changed that much, I thought.
The pitcher for our grandson’s team was a young man, but the opposing team’s pitcher was a lady named Michelle who worked at our local gas and convenience store. She was always cheerful and had a great personality, but I learned something deeper and richer about her that day.
Her team was at bat, and as the batter stepped to the plate, someone behind me whispered, “This is his first real ball game, and I think it’s his first time at bat! Let’s see how he does.”
He was a little chubby. And as awkward goes? That, too. But he positioned himself in the batter’s box and waited.
First throw—a swing and a miss.
Second throw—didn’t quite make it there. (She was being fair, but gentle.)
Third pitch and—bang! Off the bat and straight to the shortstop! The chubby kid ran as best he could, but was thrown out at first base.
He had never played in a real game before, though, so all he heard was Jenny yelling “Run Forrest, run!” as he ran for first base. He made it and just stood there with a big smile of achievement on his face!
The make-believe coach in our stands mouthed off, “Is that kid stupid? He’s out! He needs to get off the base so we can get on with the game!”
His wife told him to be quiet—and for his sake, I’m glad he did!
What could Michelle do? This was a real competition—and she was in a real Catch-22! However, that day it was competition with compassion, and we watched her walk slowly over to him and put her arm around his shoulder.
“Wow, you got a hit your very first time at bat! That’s great. Not many players can do that.” I overheard her say. “Now let’s go to the dugout, get some water, and wait for your next turn. That was awesome, though. You really smacked that ball!”
The kids in the dugout clapped for him, and he was a happy camper who never knew anything was wrong. Were it not for her simple act of compassion, that boy could have been humiliated and turned into a wounded, brokenhearted outsider. He could have been scarred for life during a Little League baseball game—because he didn’t know the rules.
Thank God for compassionate people like Michelle! I watched as she modestly walked back to the pitcher’s mound. Everyone was happy in Little League Heaven, and she probably didn’t realize she’d just saved that chubby little boy’s hopes and dreams.
Perhaps he will grow up to be a godly father, or maybe a guidance counselor helping chubby little kids change their lives. Who knows; he may become the Little League coach who puts his arm around your grandchild and says, “Wow, did you see what you did? That was great!”
An Act of Compassion.
By Hal Steenson
April 20th, 2026
“Finally, all of you be of one mind, having compassion for one another; love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous; not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary blessing, knowing that you were called to this, that you may inherit a blessing.” 1 Peter 3:8–9
Mollie and I hadn’t been to a Little League baseball game in years, so naturally, we were unfamiliar with the updated rules like coaches being pitchers, and players throwing the ball to the pitcher to stop any player from running to the next base.
However, some age-old “standards” popped up—like the young man in our stands that was suffering from the delusion that he was coaching both teams, yelling out orders to every kid! No matter what the base coaches said, he thought he was in charge. Never mind how they decided a close call, he verbalized his own opinion—loudly. It was disgusting, and I wondered what his son must think of him. Things haven’t changed that much, I thought.
The pitcher for our grandson’s team was a young man, but the opposing team’s pitcher was a lady named Michelle who worked at our local gas and convenience store. She was always cheerful and had a great personality, but I learned something deeper and richer about her that day.
Her team was at bat, and as the batter stepped to the plate, someone behind me whispered, “This is his first real ball game, and I think it’s his first time at bat! Let’s see how he does.”
He was a little chubby. And as awkward goes? That, too. But he positioned himself in the batter’s box and waited.
First throw—a swing and a miss.
Second throw—didn’t quite make it there. (She was being fair, but gentle.)
Third pitch and—bang! Off the bat and straight to the shortstop! The chubby kid ran as best he could, but was thrown out at first base.
He had never played in a real game before, though, so all he heard was Jenny yelling “Run Forrest, run!” as he ran for first base. He made it and just stood there with a big smile of achievement on his face!
The make-believe coach in our stands mouthed off, “Is that kid stupid? He’s out! He needs to get off the base so we can get on with the game!”
His wife told him to be quiet—and for his sake, I’m glad he did!
What could Michelle do? This was a real competition—and she was in a real Catch-22! However, that day it was competition with compassion, and we watched her walk slowly over to him and put her arm around his shoulder.
“Wow, you got a hit your very first time at bat! That’s great. Not many players can do that.” I overheard her say. “Now let’s go to the dugout, get some water, and wait for your next turn. That was awesome, though. You really smacked that ball!”
The kids in the dugout clapped for him, and he was a happy camper who never knew anything was wrong. Were it not for her simple act of compassion, that boy could have been humiliated and turned into a wounded, brokenhearted outsider. He could have been scarred for life during a Little League baseball game—because he didn’t know the rules.
Thank God for compassionate people like Michelle! I watched as she modestly walked back to the pitcher’s mound. Everyone was happy in Little League Heaven, and she probably didn’t realize she’d just saved that chubby little boy’s hopes and dreams.
Perhaps he will grow up to be a godly father, or maybe a guidance counselor helping chubby little kids change their lives. Who knows; he may become the Little League coach who puts his arm around your grandchild and says, “Wow, did you see what you did? That was great!”
THREE ANGELS BROADCASTING NETWORK DEVOTIONAL.
An Act of Compassion.
By Hal Steenson
April 20th, 2026
“Finally, all of you be of one mind, having compassion for one another; love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous; not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary blessing, knowing that you were called to this, that you may inherit a blessing.” 1 Peter 3:8–9
Mollie and I hadn’t been to a Little League baseball game in years, so naturally, we were unfamiliar with the updated rules like coaches being pitchers, and players throwing the ball to the pitcher to stop any player from running to the next base.
However, some age-old “standards” popped up—like the young man in our stands that was suffering from the delusion that he was coaching both teams, yelling out orders to every kid! No matter what the base coaches said, he thought he was in charge. Never mind how they decided a close call, he verbalized his own opinion—loudly. It was disgusting, and I wondered what his son must think of him. Things haven’t changed that much, I thought.
The pitcher for our grandson’s team was a young man, but the opposing team’s pitcher was a lady named Michelle who worked at our local gas and convenience store. She was always cheerful and had a great personality, but I learned something deeper and richer about her that day.
Her team was at bat, and as the batter stepped to the plate, someone behind me whispered, “This is his first real ball game, and I think it’s his first time at bat! Let’s see how he does.”
He was a little chubby. And as awkward goes? That, too. But he positioned himself in the batter’s box and waited.
First throw—a swing and a miss.
Second throw—didn’t quite make it there. (She was being fair, but gentle.)
Third pitch and—bang! Off the bat and straight to the shortstop! The chubby kid ran as best he could, but was thrown out at first base.
He had never played in a real game before, though, so all he heard was Jenny yelling “Run Forrest, run!” as he ran for first base. He made it and just stood there with a big smile of achievement on his face!
The make-believe coach in our stands mouthed off, “Is that kid stupid? He’s out! He needs to get off the base so we can get on with the game!”
His wife told him to be quiet—and for his sake, I’m glad he did!
What could Michelle do? This was a real competition—and she was in a real Catch-22! However, that day it was competition with compassion, and we watched her walk slowly over to him and put her arm around his shoulder.
“Wow, you got a hit your very first time at bat! That’s great. Not many players can do that.” I overheard her say. “Now let’s go to the dugout, get some water, and wait for your next turn. That was awesome, though. You really smacked that ball!”
The kids in the dugout clapped for him, and he was a happy camper who never knew anything was wrong. Were it not for her simple act of compassion, that boy could have been humiliated and turned into a wounded, brokenhearted outsider. He could have been scarred for life during a Little League baseball game—because he didn’t know the rules.
Thank God for compassionate people like Michelle! I watched as she modestly walked back to the pitcher’s mound. Everyone was happy in Little League Heaven, and she probably didn’t realize she’d just saved that chubby little boy’s hopes and dreams.
Perhaps he will grow up to be a godly father, or maybe a guidance counselor helping chubby little kids change their lives. Who knows; he may become the Little League coach who puts his arm around your grandchild and says, “Wow, did you see what you did? That was great!”
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