Forward

One of those forwards that are worth reading!
Thanks Abi :)

The Winner

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.

The teams were pretty evenly matched. I will just call
them Team One and Team Two. Nobody scored in the first
period.

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.

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.

The boy's father 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 broken-hearted.

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, "John, 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."


Author Unknown