I have a confession.
Someone once hit me over the head with a glass bottle while on spring break. That’s not the confession but it’s my most “Patrick Swayze Roadhouse” type story and I can’t imagine I’ll ever write another post on fist fights so I thought I should at least mention it. My confession is that I recently cheated at an Easter Egg hunt for little kids.
I know, I’m an awful human being. We were at my in-laws country club. Every year they have a massive Easter Egg hunt with a petting zoo and blow up toys and face painting etc. The highlight of the event is a massive egg hunt divided into different age groups. Hidden within the field are golden eggs that can be redeemed for large Easter baskets overflowing with candy and the type of toys you usually win at carnivals.
Last year, my four-year old L.E. found one and got a huge basket. So this year she expected to do the same and the pressure was on. There’s something weird and not great that happens with dads and their kids. It’s like throwing fuel on an already competitive bonfire. And I knew she was not going to get one. This year she had to get eggs without our help and was going in a group of kids aged 4-6. These boys in her group looked massive compared to her and were like stretching their quads in anticipation of running for eggs. So during my two-year old daughter’s portion of the egg hunt I saw a golden egg right behind a rope in another portion of the course that had not been opened yet. It was out of bounds, definitely not within play and was meant for another race.
So I stretched my leg out, picked up the golden egg while my sister-in law Marci provided me a cover and then put it in my pocket. A few minutes later, just to kill time while we waited for L.E.’s hunt to begin, I started pointing out to my her where some golden eggs were. I was just saying, “when it starts, you can run over there for a golden egg.” Another father wearing a visor, people in visors hate me for some reason, started yelling at me to his wife. “Look at this guy. Hey buddy! This is for kids. Give me a break.” I responded by saying something like, “Take it easy, she’s three years old, it’s going to be alright.” (Yes, in the heat of the moment I forgot my daughter’s age. I’m pretty smooth.) We yelled some more and then went our separate ways. Just imagine if he had seen me actually break the honor code of the golden egg. Good times.
And that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens in church softball leagues sometimes. It’s hard not to be competitive. Like driving out of the parking lot after church, we forget all about God in those moments. We throw elbows in church basketball, slide cleat first in church softball and don’t get me started on our Frisbie golf fouls.
All in all, it’s exactly the way Jesus first intended us to play church organized sports.
