One of the greatest gifts my parents ever gave was their willingness to play with us kids. My dad had wicked night-game skills, he always seemed to be the last one found. My mom tried out all kinds of moves on our trampoline, even a toe-touch or two. We played baseball as a family. We rode bikes as a family. I might have rolled my eyes as a teenager, but I am so glad my parents were always more than a spectator in my life.

So, this week, while I waited for my youngest son’s football practice to end, I noticed many of the younger siblings of the other families were playing a game of kickball at the other end of the field. After a few minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. I jumped in to play too. What a fun way to pass the time.

For almost thirty minutes, I laughed as I kicked, ran bases, and sometimes intentionally threw the ball away. And seeing how much the other kids got a kick out of watching me act like one of them, made it even more priceless.

Several times, I waved over to the other parents, inviting them to join us, but not one of them did. I just smiled and kept going. The power that happens when a parent plays with their child is always worth sharing, even when the kids aren’t my own.