I was ten and a half. My extended family visited for the holidays and we all headed to the park for a little game of soccer. The teams: parents vs. kids. We had the speed, the finesse, we all played soccer everyday, we had the victory. Our parents had a little bit of size on us, but I knew that size didn’t matter – plus I knew that my dad was always sore the day after fierce competition so I knew they had the fear factor against them, the game was in the bag. The kids raced out of the blocks scoring quickly and letting the ol’ parents know what the outcome was going to be. They made a slight come back, but we had guts. We had guts and we left them on the field. Somehow our parents pulled out the victory, and as they celebrated in laughter, I ran. I ran and ran, crying violently. They let me run. They let me cry. But when they came to pick me up, they made me shake hands and congratulate everyone. We lost. I lost. I learned something: sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. You can’t read about losing and understand it. You can’t study it, you can’t download it, you have to compete and lose. Some sports leagues in our churches allow everyone to win, a wonderful idea. All the kids go home ‘unhurt’, but I question if any of them go home satisfied. The only analogy that comes to me is extreme, but if you take it simply as an example of a good idea that doesn’t work in this world of sin, it will do. Socialism, a wonderful thought where no one gets hurt, but in my estimation, no one is satisfied--even temporarily, definitely not ultimately. I survived the excruciating loss at ten and a half, and you know what, I think I am better for it. I have since lost in relationships, work, school… and I don’t run, at least not as far, and I don’t cry, at least not as long. I learned, I want to teach. Let’s keep score.