| I was watching some little kids play soccer.
These kids were only five or six years old, but they were playing a real
game - - a serious game two teams, complete with coaches, uniforms, and
parents. I didn't know any of them, so I was able to enjoy the game without
the distraction of being anxious about winning or losing - I wished the
parents and coaches could have done the same.
The teams were pretty evenly matched. I
will just call them Team One and Team Two. Nobody scored in the first period.
The kids were hilarious. They were clumsy and terribly inefficient. They
fell over their own feet, they tumbled over the ball, they kicked at the
ball and missed it but they didn't seem to care. They were having fun.
In the second quarter, the Team One coach pulled out what must have been
his first team and put in the scrubs, except for his best player who now
guarded the goal.
The game took a dramatic turn. I guess
winning is important even when you're five years old- because the Team
Two coach left his best players in, and the Team One scrubs were no match
for them. Team Two swarmed around the little guy who was now the Team One
goalie. He was an outstanding athlete, but he was no match for three or
four who were also very good. Team Two began to score. The lone goalie
gave it everything he had, recklessly throwing his body in front of incoming
balls, trying valiantly to stop them. Team Two scored two goals in quick
succession. It infuriated the young boy. He became a raging maniac-shouting,
running, diving. With all the stamina he could muster, he covered the boy
who now had the ball, but that boy kicked it to another boy twenty feet
away, and by the time he repositioned himself, it was too late-they scored
a third goal. I soon learned who the goalie's parents were. They were nice,
decent-looking people. I could tell that his dad had just come from the
office-he still had his suit and tie on. They yelled encouragement to their
son. I became totally absorbed, watching the boy on the field and his parents
on the sidelines. After the third goal, the little kid changed. He could
see it was no use; he couldn't stop them.
He didn't quit, but he became quietly desperate
futility was written all over him. His father changed too. He had been
urging his son to try harder - yelling advice and encouragement. But then
he changed. He became anxious.He tried to say that it was okay - to hang
in there. He grieved for the pain his son was feeling.
After the fourth goal, I knew what was
going to happen. I've seen it before. The little boy needed help so badly,
and there was no help to be had. He retrieved the ball from the net and
handed to the referee - and then he cried. He just stood there while huge
tears rolled down both cheeks. He went to his knees and put his fists to
his eyes and he cried the tears of the helpless and brokenhearted.
When the boy went to his knees, I saw the
father start onto the field. His wife clutched his arm and said, "Jim,
don't. You'll embarrass him." But he tore loose from her and ran onto the
field. He wasn't supposed to - the game was still in progress. Suit, tie,
dress shoes, and all - he charged onto the field, and he picked up his
son so everybody would know that this was his boy, and he hugged him and
held him and cried with him. I've never been so proud of a man in my life.
He carried him off the field, and when
he got close to the sidelines I heard him say, "Scotty, I'm so proud of
you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my
son."
"Daddy," the boy sobbed, "I couldn't stop
them. I tried, Daddy, I tried and tried, and they scored on me."
"Scotty, it doesn't matter how many times
they scored on you. You're my son, and I'm proud of you. I want you to
go back out there and finish the game. I know you want to quit, but you
can't. And, son, you're going to get scored on again, but it doesn't matter.
Go on, now."
It made a difference - I could tell it
did. When you're all alone, and you're getting scored on - and you can't
stop them - it means a lot to know that it doesn't matter to those who
love you. The little guy ran back on to the field - and they scored two
more times - but it was okay.
I get scored on every day. I try so hard.
I recklessly throw my body in every direction. I fume and rage. I struggle
with temptation and sin with every ounce of my being - and Satan laughs.
And he scores again, and the tears come, and I go to my knees - sinful,
convicted, helpless.
And my Father - my Father rushes right
out on the field - right in front of the whole crowd - the whole jeering,
laughing world - and he picks me up, and he hugs me and he says, "Kevin,
I'm so proud of you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know
that you are my son, and because I control the outcome of this game, I
declare you-The Winner."
You can be a winner too.
In His Mercies, Becky http://my.homewithgod.com/inhismercies/ Isaiah 38:17Behold, it was for my peace
that I had intense bitterness; but You have loved back my life from the
pit of corruption and nothingness, for You have cast all my sins behind
Your back.
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