Our passions and our callings bring us both blessings and burdens.

Both.

Years ago, I regularly traveled to Boston one weekend a month to teach a graduate course on adolescent spirituality at Boston College. I always went to dinner at a small neighborhood restaurant on the nights when I was in town. Always sat at the bar, where the TV was, so I could watch the Red Sox, Patriots, or Celtics with the locals. There’s nothing quite like watching important games with the locals.

It was October and the beloved Red Sox were battling the Yankees, whom the locals described as “the Evil Empire,” for a chance to play in the World Series. The Red Sox were winning. An inning or two left to play. The Yankees had runners on base and were threatening to score.

Everyone in the restaurant, along with everyone in New England—maybe everyone on the planet—knew that with just a few more outs the Sox would have a chance to play in the World Series for the first time in about 20 years.

History was knocking on the door. Years of local prayers (and lamentations) were about to be answered.

Boston’s best pitcher, Pedro Martinez, was on the mound. But he was now showing signs of fatigue. Boston’s manager had to make the season’s most important decision: take out his ace pitcher and bring in a reliever, or stick with his ace, who had been pitching incredibly well all year.

If the manager pulled Pedro and the Yankees got a few hits off the reliever, the manager would be seen as an idiot. If the manager stuck with Pedro and the Yankees got a hit or two off his tiring star, he would look like an idiot.

Of the three possible ways this situation could turn out, two of them could get him fired.

The TV cameras zoomed inside the dugout and focused on the Boston manager talking things over with the assistant coach—also known as his “bench coach.” The two stared out at the mound. They chatted. They looked out at their pitcher again. The bench coach went to the mound and talked with the pitcher.

They left Pedro in.

And the Yankees scored the winning run and went on to the World Series.

I taught the weekend class the next two days. When it was over, I made my way back to the same restaurant for dinner. Boston was a city in mourning. There were plenty of open chairs next to me that night when the bartender saw a guy walk in and quietly said, “Hi, Coach.”

“Who’s that?” I whispered to the bartender.

“Bench coach for the Red Sox. During the season he rents an apartment up the street. Comes in for dinner when the Sox are in town. Probably coming in tonight before heading back home to South Carolina for the winter.”

There was an empty seat between Coach and me. It represented the space he needed and deserved. I was determined to respect his space. But I casually asked him three questions—doing my best to be nonchalant.

After more than a decade, his answers are still fresh in my mind because they surprised me while at the same time, they completely captured the paradox of passionately caring about the work one does in one’s life.

The answers Coach gave that night are no different than the ones we give regarding our love for teaching—the instincts we develop over time—and the soul searching we do when it is not always going well.

His answers mirrored the way callings take hold of our hearts.

Blessing us and burdening us.

Both.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” he nodded.

“So you go out to the mound to check on your pitcher. You know he’s gonna tell you that he’s fine and can get it done. Right? So what do you do? Why go out there?”

“So you can look into his eyes. Listen to the sound of his voice.”

I smiled and let some silence take back its place between us.

“What was it like two nights ago…Yankee Stadium…national TV...fans going nuts…game on the line…World Series waiting for the winner…? Stress you out?”

“It was great! It was incredible. It’s what you live for. It’s what you dream about ever since you were a kid. It was fun!!!”

The authenticity and joy of his answer stunned me. How much he loved it.

“One more question: Will you think about the game much during the off season?”

Looking at his plate and bringing food to his mouth, his response was once again immediate. “Every pitch… Every night.”

A blessing and a burden.

Both.