Fighting the good fight

Had a dream last night that I lost it on the wiffleball court. Lost. It. My team was short on players, the other team kept finding holes in our defense (in fact, I don’t remember us even batting; the Mercy Rule must not exist in dreams), and I dropped three fly balls. I screamed about the teams being stacked, wiffleball being stupid, and other such nonsense, and then stormed out.

I woke up grateful that I didn’t have to go to confession for such shameful behavior. But not surprised. Because I get that worked up playing recreational sports. Or pretty much anything else. I don’t know if it has to do with being the oldest, or a twin, or Type A, or some mutant combination of the three, but I hate losing.
I could try to dance around it, saying that I’m passionate, or dedicated, or that I see things through. But really I’m just competitive. I want to be the best. I want to win.

It’s almost embarrassing to be honest. Sometimes I’d rather just be the person who didn’t care, who was happy just to play, who laughed off mistakes. And while I know it’s good for me to be humbled, I still hate it. But here’s the good news: God is always victorious, and He’s on my side.

Romans 8 reminds us that we “conquer overwhelmingly” in Christ. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” We are on the winning side. Raise the banners, take a bow. God made me just the way I am, competitiveness and all, because He made me to conquer. So it shouldn’t matter that I drop a pass in football (at least it shouldn’t ruin my day) or get yelled at in the OR during an anesthesia day because I didn’t intubate on the first try (I can’t be the best at everything. Dang it!). Because those are just little battles in a bigger war, which we have already won. So I continue trying to funnel this passion towards greater goals, to humbly accept the losses, and to let the victories be His.