“Use both hands.” When the Anaheim Angels won the World Series in 2002, just for a moment Angel Darin Erstad was ten again. He got the final out after the Giants’ Kenny Lofton hit a pop fly to right. Erstad said later that as he ran toward the ball, he heard his father’s voice in his head saying, “Use both hands.”
This year’s fall classic might’ve turned out different if New York left fielder Aaron Judge had accessed his inner little leaguer in the top of the fifth. If only he’d used both hands trying to catch Dodger Tommy Erdman’s popup. Dropping it was the first of three Yankee mistakes that spelled disaster.
Childhood advice is so helpful. Cover the base. Say please. Be kind. Use both hands.
Holy hands are soft hands, too. On Sunday I attended the funeral of a colleague’s son, a firefighter and paramedic named Stephen, who died at 29 after a sudden, brief illness. He’d been baptized as a baby by Bishop Chet Talton of the Episcopal Diocese of Los Angeles. Stephen’s family invited Chet to say the portion of the service called the commendation, where the church blesses one’s remains on the way to their resting place.
When I saw Chet at the reception afterwards, I said I’d never seen anything more moving — the same priest who had signified Stephen’s entry into the new life of Christ’s baptism now, nearly three decades later, pronouncing a blessing on his entry into eternal life. As I spoke, Chet held his hands out, palms up, side by side, as though cradling Stephen once again. He said he could remember how small he’d been. He could still feel Stephen’s weight.
If you’ve held a baby, and I suspect most of us have, in that moment, holding on is your sole priority. On behalf of the whole universe, you are responsible for the safety of someone tender, precious, and vulnerable. So holding, rocking, cradling, comforting, baptizing, you use both hands.
And I guess it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that when we’re catching a fly for the team or holding a baby for the universe, and we’re using both hands, our hands aren’t available for anything else. We can’t give someone the finger, write a mean post, or pick up a gun. In such moments we can only render goodness unto goodness for goodness’ sake.
Which is why I was strangely moved when a Washington Post headline writer decided to say this afternoon that our election, our country and its whole future, all its potential and shortcoming, all our hope and fear, is “now in voters’ hands.” Making the last out, holding someone precious, and now doing the right thing as free people in community.
The whole world is in God’s hands, as we like to sing. And according to our faith, we are supposed to hold onto one another for dear life as well, all our fellow creatures of God, notwithstanding difference or location. We don’t always feel like it. Robert Hunter wrote this in a Grateful Dead lyric many years ago: “I see you got your fist out; say your piece and get out.”
Strenuous political debate keeps us from coming to blows over interests and grievances as often as people once did. But that season is behind us, at least until pitchers and catchers report for the 2026 midterms. For now, accepting reliable outcomes, dealing with the policy consequences, continuing to live into our differences in a pluralizing nation, and lifting one another up when people are worried or scared — in the days and weeks ahead, we’re going to need to use both hands.
