When I was growing up I played all kinds of sports: gymnastics, basketball, volleyball, cross country, track, tennis ... but probably my favorite had to be soccer. I still remember the rush of adrenaline I would feel in my stomach when we were driving to one of my games. Just the anticipation of getting out onto the field to run my guts out and maybe put the ball in the goal was what I looked forward to all week long.
There was one particular game at the end of the season where the all-stars were selected to play in a final match for bragging rights. To my surprise I was selected but have always wondered if it was for my mad-soccer-skills or because my Dad was the assistant coach. At any rate, I was only 10 and this was the biggest game of my fledgling soccer career. There's one particular part of the game I clearly remember. I was positioned at midfield and I had the opportunity to support the attacking forwards. The ball came to me and I began to dribble it wide left and up field. I was going to make a break for it and try to cross the ball near the 18 yard line so that one of my teammates could have an opportunity to score.
My scrawny legs couldn't carry me fast enough. The defense was closing in way too fast. I had to let it go a little early. I tried to remember all the things my soccer coaches had taught me: plant your foot firmly, lean over the ball, and follow-through in the direction you want the ball to go. With these tips in mind I unleashed the ball with every ounce of strength I could muster. It went up, up over the defensive players and ended up bouncing fairly close to the mark desired. Matt Daugherty was there to pick it up and he made an excellent play on goal but we didn't score on that opportunity. While getting back to my position to receive the goal kick, I heard a familiar voice in the crowd. It was my Mom shouting, "That's my boy!" I've always had mixed feelings about this cheer because it was a little embarrassing to have a mother so vocally proud of her son. But I wouldn't change it for the world. She continued to cheer, "That's my boy!" not only at my soccer games, but every sporting event, school play, report card, you name it, until I turned 18 (ok, I'll admit she still says it to this day and I'm 32 years old).
God sent His Son -- His one and only Son -- to be the Savior of the world for our victory. How do you think God felt when He watched Jesus being born to Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem? "That's my boy!" When He turned the 'H20 into Merlot'? "That's my boy!" When He raised Lazarus from the dead? "That's my boy!" When He rode into town on a donkey and was hailed King of Kings and Lord of Lords? "That's my boy!" Then finally when He climbed the hill of the skull with cross in tow and blood spilling from every open wound; when He was nailed to the cross and was hanged to die as payment for our sin so that we could have eternal life? "That's MY boy!"
God did so love us that He sent His Son to earth to become like us and to live and die for us (John 3:16). What a God! What a Father! What a Savior! As proud as my parents were of me playing in that all-star game, it fails to compare with what God felt the day His Son went to the cross. We will all accomplish much in life with many great victories and a few defeats along the way, and there will be countless mothers and fathers in the stands with similar chants of, "That's my boy/girl!" But may we always remember that it may have been said for the first time so many years ago when our heavenly Father watched His Son give the world victory that day.
Stay the course, finish the race ... AB
(Next Week: The Parable of the Ebay Ad)
No comments:
Post a Comment