Crucibles

In my years as a fighter, I won a lot of fights in the first round. I also lost a lot of fights in the first round.  Often, the reason I lost fights in the first round had to do with how badly I wanted to win fights in the first round.  I didn’t know how to allow the fight set its own pace.  I always wanted to be in charge of how fast—or how slowly—the fight progressed.

I’ve always struggled with patience.

My first few amateur fights were…let’s just say…very amateur.  I was not ready for any of them.  I didn’t train appropriately, because I didn’t know how to train appropriately.  I had teammates and coaches, but they didn’t know how to prepare for an MMA fight.  It wasn’t really their fault (I harbor no resentments), because MMA was an emerging sport and most teams were simply ignorant.  The information didn’t flow as readily as it does now.

I wanted to finish every fight as quickly as I could.  I told myself that I wanted to be an exciting fighter with a reputation for bringing the fight.  I suppose there was some truth to that, but it wasn’t the whole truth.  There were lots of other truths, too.

The often-uncomfortable fact was that I didn’t know how to adjust my efforts—I was untrained as to how much energy to invest in right or wrong timing.  I wasn’t sure if I had the conditioning to finish an entire round, let alone a following round, or a round after that.  I was afraid of fatigue, not just because it made me vulnerable to my opponent, but because I knew fatigue would degrade my technique and expose me as the amateur I was.  I watched a few videos of my fights after they were over, and I was, in fact, an embarrassment.Everything changed when I shifted my training.  I decided I wanted to invest some of myself into this sport and began training with an educated fight team.  I later moved on to represent a couple of other teams.  I found that coaches at that level had similar philosophies.  They all trained to fight longer than the fight was scheduled for, no matter what that time might be.If we were preparing for a Jiu-jitsu tournament with 6-minute rounds we would train 10-minute rounds.  As an amateur MMA fighter, my fights were typically scheduled for three 3-minute rounds, but my coaches insisted we were training 5-minute rounds, six at a time—and that was considered an easy night.  The situation grew more demanding when I transitioned into a professional MMA career.  5-minute rounds demanded 10-minute practice rounds to harden the body and sharpen the mind.Because fighting is a grind that requires a hardened body and sharp mind.I still wanted to finish fights in the first round, and sometimes I did.  But I often didn’t, especially when fighting tougher opponents.  On more than one occasion I found myself deep into multiple rounds, battered and exhausted, but confident that I had more in me.  I knew I could finish the fight because I had been forged for the finish.  I knew I could go the distance.

I’m still impatient.  My lack of patience on the mats is only a reflection of my internal contempt for delayed gratification.  I want positive results without waiting.  I want everything of value to come to me in the form of the miraculous—like a magic trick.

I crave the momentary miraculous.  I want the flashy things and the explosive moments in time that instantly change my life.  I want them to be the sort of thing that I can’t help but notice, and I want them to be unmistakably identifiable moments in my life.  I think I would like to teleport from being the person I currently am into the person I’m meant to be, but I’d like to do it while skipping all the hard parts.   

I am abundantly aware that God has performed the miraculous with precision at times in my life.  Some of those miracles I remember.  Many of them—I imagine—I’m not even aware of.  Others I became aware of long after they happened.I wonder, sometimes, at strange moments in my mind, if there were times God chose to perform the explosively miraculous in my life because He knew I didn’t have the strength for the duration.  Maybe He knew I needed to be rescued, so He plucked me out of danger into a safer place.  And, maybe, I missed the actual miracle.It’s possible that the miracle is found in the crucible.

A crucible for silver, and a smelter for gold, and the LORD is the tester of hearts. (Proverbs 17:3) 

I’m not a metalworker, but I think I know enough to know that iron doesn’t grow out of the ground as iron.  It must be smelted, and it must be forged.  It must be exposed to extreme heat, and it must take a beating. 

I know how to take a beating.  I’ve proven that plenty of times.  It’s probably the one thing I’m best at.

There is something about damage with a purpose that I can almost convince myself to be fond of.  The process of honing is something that part of me recognizes as necessary.  But sometimes this is nothing more than an intellectual exercise in my mind.  Once the pressure is applied, I quickly want it to be over. 

I don’t want to be in the crucible.

I will put this third through the fire; I will refine them as silver is refined and test them as gold is tested. They will call on My name, and I will answer them. I will say: They are My people, and they will say: Yahweh is our God." (Zechariah 13:9) 

I always knew that the hard practices were making me better.  I knew that the strength and conditioning routines would make me a better fighter.  I knew that that one more round was going to prove to myself that I was capable of more than I previously thought.

I knew all these things, but I still wanted it to be over.  Often, I didn’t even want it to begin.  I can’t the hours I spent sitting in my car trying to convince myself to walk through the door, knowing how difficult practice was about to be.  I would have preferred to be instantly skilled, instantly strong, or instantly technical.  But there were no instant solutions available, only slow and deliberate growth.

Unfortunately, in my thinking (but my thinking isn’t the same as God’s), my evolution is a process.  Sometimes it’s a process full of progress, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like progress.  It feels like a process full of struggle.  Evolving upward is not an immediate change.  As relieving as the momentary miraculous might feel at the time, I could be missing out on something beautiful if all the tribulation disappeared in an instant.

Perhaps the miracle is found in how subtle the miracle really is, so much so that I barely notice.

Dear friends, don't let this one thing escape you: With the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like one day.  The Lord does not delay His promise, as some understand delay, but is patient with you, not wanting any to perish but all to come to repentance. (2 Peter 3:8-9) 

I had started training with a new team a few months before.  It was a small team with a group of terrifically talented fighters, all of whom were better than me.  It was exactly what I needed.  I needed teammates who were better than me.  That’s how I was going to get better.

One of those teammates was an accomplished wrestler and an absolute nightmare on the ground.  He was quick, he was strong, and he was incredibly technical—all the things that I was not but was hoping to be.  I wasn’t equal to his level of skill, and he proved that every time we sparred.

Then he went out of town for a few months, and I didn’t get to train with him for a while.  I kept training, but not with him.  A handful of weeks later, after his extended absence, he showed back up on a Saturday morning.

My coach decided to set us up with some competitive rounds where the winner of each round stayed in to fight the next person in line while the loser went to the back to wait for another shot. 

He and I started things off on our feet.  He’d been gone a little while, but he had managed to keep training.  He was still sharp, darting in and out with quick feet.  I was forced to defend a series of alternating single-leg and body-lock takedowns and each attempt was coming a little closer to success.

I’m not sure if I saw an opening or if I forced one—I just know that I changed levels and drove forward into a single-leg of my own.  I hit the takedown cleanly and took him to the mat with near textbook precision.  I landed in side-control, and he attempted to fight his way up.  He exposed his back.  I had the choke sunk seconds later.

He went to the back of the line, and I greeted the next grappler in line.  I dispatched him, as well.  It was one of those mornings where everything was working in my favor.

When the session came to an end and we were cleaning up I saw him talking to my coach.  A few minutes later, just as I was about to leave, my coach approached me.  “Joel,” he said, “I just wanted to let you know that Patrick was very impressed with your performance this morning.  He says that in the time he’s been gone you’ve become the best grappler in the room.”

I never realized I was improving.  I was just showing up.  Somehow, over the months, I had grown as a grappler and as a fighter.  I didn’t know it, though.  Not until Patrick came back around.

The shape I am now doesn’t fit the shape I’m made to be.  It can’t fit into my purpose.  I have edges that need to be honed, weights that need to be shed, and burdens I’ve accumulated along the way.  I’m the wrong shape to be what God designed me to be.  God loves me far too much to leave me in the shape I am.

I have to be forged. That doesn’t mean I like it, though.  Being inside of the crucible is never easy.  It’s painful, uncomfortable, and crushing with its weight.  I don’t think there’s ever been a time I’ve enjoyed the crucible, even when I knew it was what I needed.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve begged God for the momentary miraculous—for Him to pluck me out of that crucible and away from the heat.

Yet He knows the way I have taken; when He has tested me, I will emerge as pure gold. (Job 23:10) 

I love it when the big guys invite me into their training.  I also hate it, because I’m a bigger guy but not so big compared to them.  Size often equates to strength, and this is true in this case.  These are big, strong grapplers.  They are bigger and stronger than me.  They are also accomplished fighters, so this training is nothing short of brutal.

It’s more of those rounds—the kind where winner stays in the mix while the loser goes to the end of the line to wait for another chance.

I’ve had a pretty good run—four or five victories deep—and I’m feeling it.  Every inch is a battle with these guys.  There is no time limit to a round and some of these have gone long.  They’re all making me work.  No easy victories.  Everything is an actual fight.

I’m trying to pass my sparring partner’s guard, but his guard is crafty.  He may be a big man, but he can move.  I’ve trained with him a lot over the years, so he is quite familiar with my game.  He’s cutting off my favorite techniques before I can initiate them.  It’s good training, even though my body might argue that point.

I pressure forward into my favorite guard pass, and he’s fighting back with everything he’s got.  Does he even get tired?  We’ve been at this for a minute.  I’ve been running mobility and pressure passes at him in tight succession and I know that he’s working as hard as I am.  But he just won’t stop.

I feel that intense lactic burn and ask myself how badly I want this.

It’s only practice. It’s not an actual match.  If I win this round, I’ll be rewarded by having to fight against the next grappler in line.  I can see the next guy standing there—he’s bigger than this one and just as talented.  I know I can find a way out that doesn’t look like I’m trying to find a way out.  I can make it look good.  I can throw myself into some flashy move that I don’t expect to succeed.  I would be able to graciously accept my defeat and go to the back of the line.  I could let him sweep me by leaving just enough of an opening that he reverses me.  I know he’s good and I don’t have to give him such a small opening that nobody but notices—nobody would believe he didn’t earn it.  That would give me a chance to catch my breath.  Nobody would know.

But I would know.

I would know that I quit.  That’s not a habit I want to form.  I don’t want to start quitting when things grow difficult.  Maybe it’s a bit of ego, and maybe it’s a bit of ethos, but if he’s going to defeat me, he’s going to have to earn it.  He’s going to have to do it for real while defending the best I have to offer.  I have tournaments approaching in just a few weeks.  My mind and body need to be programmed accordingly.  Why would I stop now when I can harden myself for the fight?

I think there are a lot of momentary miracles occurring even in the times when I find myself crushed and pressured from the inside of the crucible.  I can’t see them, though.  I can’t see the beautiful things being supernaturally engineered because my entire focus is dedicated to what is happening in front of me—or, often, to me.  I crave the immediate rescue, especially when my time in the crucible feels like it might never end.  It feels terribly slow.  I might even describe it as stagnant.

I reach plateaus and nothing seems to be changing.  I’m still struggling the same way I struggled before—with my faith, with my emotions, with my ability to trust God and what he says.  The pressure is overwhelming and I can’t see the end of it.  I cry out for relief and desperately scream to be removed from this storm, but my God chooses to leave there.

One of the most painful but beneficial characteristics I ever learned about myself was the fact that I learn better when I’m exhausted.  It’s a difficult journey to reach exhaustion.  The better my conditioning grows the more I tend to lean of my physical abilities.  For true learning to begin, I need to be exhausted beyond the point where my own strength is accessible.  I have to be at my end.  It takes a lot for me to reach the end of myself, I think.  I’m not sure if it’s ego or if it’s ethos.

God is an author and a far more creative than I.  He’s writing my story and I’m not even the main character.  To realize my place in that narrative I’m going to have to get as much of me out of the way as possible.  That’s not possible to do on my own.  Once I reach the end of me, I begin to find the beginning of God in my story.  That’s when the miracle becomes a constant, rapidly-cycling miracle that occurs far beyond the moment—or the moments—when I want the pressure to end.

The greatest miracle is the journey, even when I can’t see it.

Therefore, this is what the LORD of Hosts says: I am about to refine them and test them, for what else can I do because of My dear people? (Jeremiah 9:7) 

“Again,” I hear my coach’s voice.  It’s not loud, it’s not even demanding.  I’ve learned it well enough to know there’s an expectation in it.  We have work to do, on something very specific.

We found a deficit in my game.  That’s what happens after a hard fight.  We analyze it to figure out what should have gone better.  We found something.  We found a weakness and now it’s time to neutralize it.  We’re going to neutralize it with an insane number of repetitions in the right direction.  We’re going to defeat bad technique with an overwhelming amount of good technique.

But I’m exhausted.  Everything hurts and everything burns.  I’ve been at this for a long time—I don’t know exactly how long it’s been, but it’s been a long time.

“I think I’m done,” I say.  “I don’t have anything left.”

“I know,” he says to me with a sense of underlying urgency, “and this is where you start learning.  You don’t have any strength left, and that’s where I need you to be.  This is where you learn to rely on technique.  This is where you learn to rely on me.”

But those who trust in the LORD will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not faint. (Isaiah 40:31)