This past week, I was schooled by my daughter. And I don’t mean in one-on-one basketball—I still have about twelve inches in height advantage after all. I mean in life.
We were playing Five Crowns—a card game that is a variation on progressive rummy, only it uses five suits (so you need to buy their cards to play). Round 1 starts with three cards each, and each round adds another card until you get to thirteen. With each round, then, you need to create a combination of runs and sets that allows you use all of the cards in your hand. If you aren’t able to lay down your cards at the end of the round, you get stuck with all the points in your hand. Some rounds go quickly—if someone is dealt enough wilds and jokers, they might be able to lay down all their cards without really even needing to pick up any cards from the deck.
We were playing as a family—each person for themselves—and one of us was having a particularly rough game. (No…it wasn’t me…). This person was particularly tired, and it seemed like each round he (or she…) ended up just one card away from being able to lay down their cards. And instead of ending the round with zero points for the round, they would get all their cards added up together—often resulting in 80 or 100 points or more added to their total.
This person was increasingly frustrated, and by the time we reached the last round, he (or she…) had already needed to be convinced to come back to the table to finish the game more than once. As we entered the last round, all but one of us were in a position where we could still win the game. The last round often goes faster than you would think—with that many cards, it’s often easier to put them together in sets and runs—but this round dragged on. I was doing my best to win, but couldn’t quite get the last card I needed.
Eventually it was clear that the person who had been having such a hard time all game was just one card away from winning the round. He (or she) even let it slip which card it was that he needed—a five. I had a five in my hand. And I was right in front of him in order of play—which meant whatever I discarded he (or she) could pick up. The first time around, I’m ashamed to say, I didn’t discard the five—I needed it myself and I reasoned that to be fair to everyone else I should play as if I hadn’t heard what he needed. And I wouldn’t naturally discard the five, so I kept it. Plus, maybe I hadn’t quite heard correctly…
The second time around I realized I would be able to lay down my cards and go out, ending the round. I had a moment of moral dilemma—if I went out, it meant my frustrated child would be even more frustrated. But I would win. And if I didn’t go out, it wouldn’t be fair to my other children who (I thought) were playing the game to win—and wouldn’t want to be helped out. I didn’t have much time—I started to lay my cards down, but then thought better of it before anyone noticed, swallowed my pride and discarded a card instead—but not the five. I thought I was pretty noble—playing the gracious father role to bring a glimmer of delight into my kid’s life by delaying the end of the game. I was almost certain he (or she…) would draw a card they needed this next turn and be able to go out.
But he (or she…) didn’t. The game kept going. And sure enough…the very next player laid out their cards on their turn. I didn’t even get the satisfaction of knowing that I had purposely not won in order to let my frustrated seven-year-old (or twelve-year-old, or thirteen-year-old) win. Actually I was a bit angry—didn’t this player who had gone out see that the rest of us were manipulating the game so the frustrated player could win a round? I was about to chew her out when a fist came out of no where and punched her in the shoulder. We don’t condone violence in our house, but I must admit, watching that punch felt oddly satisfying. But why was my other daughter upset? Had she been planning to go out that turn as well?
After the dust settled, it became clear. Brianna (the puncher) had been dealt the perfect hand right at the start. She could have gone out her very first turn that round. She would have crushed us. The rest of us would have been stuck with all our points and she would have won the whole game going away. But each turn she pretended that she couldn’t go out—and didn’t let anyone know—just so the seven-year-old would have a chance to win a round. (Actually, the daughter who did go out may have even known that Brianna had the cards to go out the whole time. Thus the punch.) I thought I had been noble by delaying the end of the round one turn—but my daughter had been far more noble than I had been.
The experience reminded me of a date long ago that had gone bad. I was being introduced to my girlfriend-at-the-time’s older sister and her husband. We were having a game night and playing Rummikub together. My girlfriend was having a rough round and wasn’t able to lay down her tiles. I, on the other hand, was having a great round and ended up playing my last tile before my girlfriend was able to play any of her tiles, leaving her with a bucketful of points. This did not go over well—and the car ride home was silent. Apparently the point of the game was to have fun, not to win. It’s a lesson I’m still learning.
Maybe there’s a lesson about life here. Many of us are programmed to look out for ourselves first. To try to “win” at life. But Paul tells us in Philippians 2:3-4, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.” (NIV) He goes on to say that our mindset should be the same as that of Christ Jesus—who set aside his divinity, became human, and died for our sake. This is an astonishing point: when we look to the interests of others—when we consider their needs even greater than our own—then we become just a little bit more like Jesus.
I’m proud that at least one of my daughters is already
pretty far along in figuring this out. It appears I have some things I could
learn from her.
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