Our son Zack is the soccer coach at the local elementary school. This is his third year, so he has a reasonable idea of what he can and cannot accomplish in two hours with fifty rambunctious boys. His focus is both giving each player time to play, and learning skills. Winning the game is secondary. So when the boys are begging him to put in the best players to rack up goals, sometimes he smiles and sends out the younger ones. He wants them to find out that working together is important too. More so than the numbers on the board.

There are days when he goes over passing. Or shooting. He sends them to lope around the field to increase stamina. On occasion they grumble about this, but he is not deterred. 

"Run."

When he comes home for dinner in a tie, it often means they had a game. Zack likes to show respect by dressing that way. He is most pleased when the team worked hard, and everyone was on the field enough to sweat. 

He is a good coach. 

The other night in marriage group we practiced a skill that entails embedding kindness into our conversation. Yes, there are dishes all over the counter. But is it proof that someone besides me made supper? What if I made that the headline, rather than the complaint about pans? Practicing this modest goal with a clutch of witnesses felt like running around the track. Part of me didn't want to. But in the safe company of friends who are also trying to up their game it felt like a way to bring the practice home.

So that I can bring it to my home.