REFLECTIONS

Yesterday, I visited my daughter and three of our fabulous eight grandchildren. We were sitting on the couch in their living room, talking while the kids were busy doing all kinds of things with an extremely high level of energy. I paused to wonder if I ever had as much energy as they did. If I did, I can't imagine it. Noah attempted to squeeze between the couch and the wall and asked me to move the sofa. At this moment, I was wrestling with a damaged shoulder, so I responded by telling him I couldn't move it. It was just too heavy. His older sister, Johannah, looked at me, puzzled. I could see her mind at work, and after a few seconds, she said, "My daddy could move it. He could pick up the whole couch all by himself." She was correct; her daddy certainly could do that easily!
In a brief moment, my thoughts took me back to life with my dad when I was young. He was a construction worker who worked hard and had a muscular build. All my friends thought he had to be one of the strongest people who ever lived. With great pride, I did, too. One of the measures of his strength was that we would occasionally arm wrestle. He would toy with me by just holding my arm in one spot while I tried with every ounce of strength I had to beat him, but the result would always be my defeat. Every time I felt a little spunky, I would excitedly and with a determined spirit of "I can do it; I can beat him this time," throw out the challenge for a rematch. Dad never denied me, and he never lost.
Years passed with the same result. Then there was that one day I will never forget. I challenged him, and he agreed. We sat at the kitchen table. We locked hands, and I beat him. We were both surprised. The look on his face was almost haunting. It seemed like an era had ended, and that wonderful, fun thing we had between us was gone. That was the last time we arm wrestled. It was a bittersweet victory for me. You would think I would have been thrilled. You would think I would have bragged to all my friends and anyone else who would listen. I didn't. I never mentioned it to any of my friends. I was hurt. I dethroned my dad, who had always been the most powerful man in my universe. I wish I had been more aware at that moment. I wish I had the wisdom to know that I could beat him, but that I had exercised the grace to let him win.
That moment has troubled me my entire life. Oh, I know it is not a life-or-death situation, but I inflicted some level of pain on my hero. My ego, which craved victory, took control of the moment, and it wasn't what I had expected. Recently, it struck me that there are moments in our lives when our ego gets the best of us. There are moments when we must win an argument, and in doing so, inadvertently inflict damage on someone we care about. There are moments when it would be best to exercise grace rather than plow ahead to gain a victory while damaging another. Is a meaningless victory worth hurting another person? Is it ever enough to know we are right rather than beating another person into the ground to prove it? Is fighting to the death how we show love to those around us? Was such behavior what Christ had in mind when He told us to love our neighbors as ourselves? We all know the answer to that question.
If we pause and consider the harm such battles could do, we might find it in our hearts to step back and not win. We have all fallen short of what God has taught us, but rather than condemning us for all the ways we have gone wrong, He gave us a way out. He is merciful, and through Christ, we live. We can examine that example as an illustration of how to love our neighbors. Maybe we can replace some of our egos with grace and let love be the victor.