This weekend I am in Atlanta, GA for the Georgia high school state swimming championship. Our son, Micah, is competing in the meet. I will spend the weekend with parents from all over the state, cheering on our kids with great enthusiasm.

It does not matter what the sport or activity is, most parents happily spend great resources in time, effort, and money to support their children’s interests. Our family has spent hours and hours at rifle ranges watching air-rifle matches, in the unforgiving heat of softball tournaments, and swim meets that seem to go on forever. I have waited at the finish line of cross country meets anxiously scanning the distance for the first site of our runner. I have held my breath as our daughter went in for a basketball layup or sprinted from first base to steal second in softball. I have shouted until my voice gave out at swim meets, trying to motivate our swimmer to give that extra effort to cut a fraction of a second off their time. I have experienced moments of great anxiety at rifle meets when the accuracy of the next shot would be the difference between a great win or a disappointing loss. There have been moments of wonderful joy when games were won, and there has been long silent car rides home because of the sting of losing.

I like to be right. Who doesn’t? It is a position of power and authority to be right. On the other hand, I hate to be wrong. Being right means that your actions are justified and correct. Being wrong requires repentance and discipline if not corrected.

My wife and I were once traveling through Atlanta long before the advent of GPS and navigation apps. It was late, and I was tired and ready to get home. For reasons that now evade my memory, we had gotten off the interstate and were entangled in the labyrinth of one-way downtown streets. I was driving and chose to rely on my own sense of direction while disregarding my wife’s gentle suggestions. I was sure that I knew the right way to get back on the interstate. After the next turn, stoplight, or block she would be forced to acknowledge that my choice of directions was right. However, after left and right turns gave way to more left and right turns, my level of frustration grew as I hopelessly searched for the interstate’s entrance that now seemed purposely eluding me.