Today I chase my daughter around the living room to tickle her. At one point, she defiantly stops in her tracks, places one hand on the couch and screams, “Base!”
“I’m safe! I’m safe on base! You can’t touch me!” she insists, nodding her head and putting one hand up as a stop sign.
I wait patiently for her to move from “base” only to find that as soon as she’s nearly in my grip, she just touches the wall and screams, “Base!” again.
For little ones, the concept of a “moving base” saves them every time. They just have to touch something–anything–claim it as their safe haven, and stop the attacker (in this case, the Tickle Monster).
She’s onto something.
I imagine enemy attacks against us in various spiritual forms. I reach out my hand, wherever I am, cling to God and scream “Base!” You can’t touch us here. We are safe.
Living with flair means I realize I’m on base.
Journal: What do I need to scream “Base!” to as I claim my safety and protection in God?