Tim’s favorite game these days is simply called Skylanders.
It’s is a game of pretend that he loves with all his heart … and which I despise. Of course, I am not opposed to pretend. I used to play pretend by the hour, alone on my swing in my parents’ backyard.
But the key word there is alone. I played my very favorite character, and I pretended all the other character were there. But I am an introvert at heart. And Tim is not.
So when he plays pretend, he wants to play WITH someone. And that wouldn’t be a bad thing … if he would actually play with me. But Skylanders is not the creation of storylines that we act out together (I got him to do that one time. Once.). Instead, he acts out the battles between Skylanders and villains, and I am not allowed to direct the play in any way. I am simply there to voice out loud whatever he wants my character to do next.
It sounds something like this:
Tim: Now you see how big Pop Fizz is getting.
Me: (standing nearby) Oh wow. How’d you get so big, Pop Fizz?
Tim: And Pop Fizz takes off after [insert villain] and they fight. [Tim jumps around, making blaster noises from imaginary weapons.]
As you can see, I’m vitally important to the scene.
Every single day, he wants to play this game. While we drive. In the living room. In the basement. Waiting impatiently for me to finish a chore. And for weeks, I absolutely dreaded his request. I balked. I put him off. I acted bored the entire time we played. I complained to Eric. But I also knew something had to change. And it was going to have to be me.
Because Tim is five. I am forty.
Because Tim needs people, even though I don’t.
Because Tim doesn’t have playmates (I knew I should’ve had twins last), and for a few more months, I’m all he’s got.
And most of all, because in just a few more months, I won’t be his whole world anymore. In the summer, his siblings will be home again. In the fall, there will be classmates and amazing teachers. Starting so very soon, there will be a great big new world for him, my very last little, to explore. And I knew I would regret it if I wasted this precious season.
So I made a choice. I humbled myself. I prayed about my attitude. I reminded myself that Tim is actually more important that “what I wanted to do.” And one day when Tim asked me to play Skylanders, I said yes. A real yes.
Instead of acting bored, I played along. Instead of flipping through a magazine at the same time, I watched him. When he poured over the characters posters to cast our roles, I looked with him and volunteered who I wanted to be. I fed him lines and (sometimes) made weapon sounds. And I’ve made it a point to play this way with him, every day.
And here’s the thing. It’s hard. Most days I still don’t want to play. I hope he forgets or gets distracted by something else. I wish the kids were home to play instead of me. But I play anyway. Because serving Tim this way is the true face of humility.
Most of the time, I pretend that humility is about big moments, big sacrifices, large-scale effects. So I don’t have to do it today, in this moment, with this child or waitress or political opponent. Except, I do.
True humility is entirely about the little moments in my day when, despite that fact that it’s hard (and it is) and that it hurts (which it does), I give up my way for someone else’s. I give up my plans for someone else’s. I choose a quiet way of sacrifice instead of the glory of likes and shares and people patting me on the back. It’s a thousand daily opportunities to follow Christ’s example. After all, he humbled himself by becoming a man. He did the Father’s will even when he didn’t feel like. He humbled himself–even unto death.
So it shouldn’t surprise me that playing Skylanders feels like a little-death. Because it is. It’s the death of one small piece of my selfishness and pride. It isn’t easy. But it’s always worth it. When I play with Tim, I lose a few minutes of writing or housework, but I get more fun, more relationship, more love, more life. And every single time I humble myself, I gain more than I lose. I find Jesus in the ordinary rhythms of the everyday. Right where he always promised he would be.
Talk to me: Why is it so hard to give up something for someone else? Where have you seen or experienced humility most clearly?
