I have long believed that baseball is a near-perfect analogy for how we think about home, and perhaps for life itself.

The batter approaches home plate, hoping to achieve the ultimate goal. During a series of interactions with the pitcher, whose job is to thwart the batter’s goal, the batter is either retired or continues further into the game.

The instant bat meets ball, everything changes. The batter becomes a runner. The goal is no longer to hit, but to move—to touch each base, one by one, until returning home.

We begin at home, and our hope is to end there. Home itself does not change, but we do—shaped, worn, and remade by the journey.

There are countless obstacles along the way. Some stand plainly in front of us; others are harder to see. Some live within us. Sometimes, they are us.

And despite the presence of others—teammates, friends, family, teachers, spiritual companions, lovers—you are alone on the field as you make your way home.

Supporters may shout from the sidelines, coaches may bellow instructions, fans may rise to their feet. But the running is yours alone. The path is yours to navigate.

There will be mistakes. Missteps are inevitable. Success and failure arrive in turns. The certainty of youth gives way, over time, to something quieter—acceptance, perhaps. For some, even wisdom. For a few, peace.

All of this is conjecture, of course. I am still somewhere near third base, rounding the corner and hoping I have a chance of making it home in one piece.

Although Hunter S. Thompson had a different take on this: “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow! What a ride!'”

I admire the sentiment. But I’m too attached to the idea of being in service to community. I don’t want my life to be only about me. I want to be the one who hits a sacrifice fly, or lays down a quiet bunt—just enough to move the runners forward.

I want to be humble enough to apologize when I’m wrong, and wise enough to learn from it—if only to make a different mistake the next time.

And I want, in the end, to have made it back home. Dusty, out of breath, maybe even totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow! Thank you!”