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Recently, I was asked if patience is the same thing as faith.  I wasn’t sure.  I’m still not sure.  I can’t help but feel like patience might be an expression of faith.  A strong faith allows me to exercise endurance because I know the result waiting on other side of my patience will be worthy of the journey.  But I don’t know if I have the trust to believe in the value of a destination I cannot see.

I have trust issues, seriously detrimental trust issues.  They interfere with my everyday operation.  I am constantly anticipating betrayal.  I don’t trust other people, I don’t trust myself, and, worst of all, I don’t trust my God.  I don’t trust my God even though He told me to.

It’s possibly the worst thing about me.

I know the place in my path where I am now, or at least I feel like I do.  Even that can be tentative.  I don’t always have clarity.  I can’t feel the present distinctly, and I definitely can’t see the future any better.  I have to trust for a future beyond , but trust is so far away.  It’s a distant thing and I can’t see that far forward.  I can’t see into the future, and I have no idea what’s waiting for me there.  It’s supposed to be something good, something incredible.  But I struggle to trust what is waiting for me in the future.  I’m too focused on what’s happening now and too worried about what that future is going to look like when I eventually get there.

For I know the plans I have for you"—this is the LORD's declaration—"plans for your welfare, not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. (Jeremiah 29:11) 

Jiu-jitsu tournaments are unpredictable, completely dependent on how many competitors sign up and at what age and weight they register.  Sometimes I only have one opponent to fight, and sometimes I have several.  There have been many times when I’ve had to compete at a lower age or a higher weight.

This was one of the days when I got to compete in a bracket with plenty of opponents.  It made the morning worth showing up for, but it also made the path to victory longer and more difficult.

As is the way of tournaments, it was crowded at the edge of the mats while other competitors were cycling through their matches.  I was staged close to my opponent, because we knew we were up shortly—a couple bouts stood between us and our start time.  One of those matches was between two other competitors from my group.  They were the opening salvo of the bracket.

It was a good match.  Both fighters were athletic and skilled.  It was fun to watch, but it probably would have been more fun if I didn’t know I would have to face one of them if I won my first match.  I could feel the nerves rising as I followed their movements.

My teammate, who knows me well, was standing at my shoulder.  He turned his head and must have seen something on my face I didn’t know was there.  Apparently, my expression was easy to read.

“Let’s not worry about those guys,” he whispered in my ear.  “Let’s worry about the match in front of you, then we’ll worry about the one that comes next.”

I don’t know how to trust.  I look forward to the future and assume—expect—that the worst possible outcome is waiting for me.  I’ve been proven wrong more times than I could possibly remember, but still, I fail to trust.  I struggle to trust despite the fact that my God has given me ample reason to trust Him.

The LORD said to Moses, "How long will these people despise Me? How long will they not trust in Me despite all the signs I have performed among them?  (Numbers 14:11) 

I experience the ache of where I am now, and I know I don’t want to be here anymore.  I know there is something better waiting for me, even though I’m not absolutely sure what’s better about it.  There’s a possibility that it’s not.  It might not be better.  It might be worse, or it might be the same.  Either way, I don’t know what’s waiting there for me.

I don’t know how to trust.  I’m bad at it.  I start looking far forward toward a future I can’t see and assume it will be a future I don’t want.  It’s a pessimistic outlook, I know, but I don’t know how to think any differently.  It’s a terrible way to live.  I want to trust, but I have no idea how.

I also desperately want to believe that the future God has waiting for me is a beautiful one.  After all, He did tell me He has good things waiting for me.  He told me that I am a masterpiece and He is crafting me into something amazing.  My future is guaranteed.

I am sure of this, that He who started a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:6) 

I want to believe God’s future for me.  I want to believe it’s better than where I am now.  I want to trust His promises and rest in the security of His plan.  But I also don’t.  I also don’t trust God.  I don’t trust what He told me, I think.  I’m not good at trust.  I’m bad at it.  I’m bad at trust.

I don’t trust the process, and I don’t trust the journey.

I think I felt like I was drowning.  It was claustrophobic and terrifying.  I felt like I couldn’t breathe, but I was breathing—just a little rapidly.  His pressure was tremendous and he felt heavy.

Sometimes one small mistake leads to a series of small mistakes and those become big mistakes. This was one of those moments.  I had tried setting up an exotic sort of guard—one that I’m not necessarily good at—and he passed it without much effort.  Trying things I’m not good at is a poor competition tactic, but it’s something I do from time to time.  It’s stupid, but I still do it.  I don’t know why.

My poor tactical choice led to a serious consequence.  I found myself fighting from underneath his side-control.  He was hunting submissions while holding me down.  He felt heavier than he really was.  He knew how to wield his bulk, and I knew that the moment I let my weight settle was the moment he was going to submit me.

I didn’t want to lose with all my teammates watching.  I hate losing.

I was moving with reckless abandon, throwing my weight around in an effort to create some kind of opening that I could exploit.  But he was good.  He was very, very good.  He absorbed my desperate momentum and turned it to his advantage.  His control crept tighter against my every desperate attempt at escape.  I could feel the specter of fatigue lingering, waiting for the opportunity to consume my efforts.

Then I heard the voice that I knew, the one that my ear had been trained to discern over the noise.  It was never too loud but always loud enough.  Even in the chaos I could hear.  I didn’t always choose to listen, but I chose to listen then.

“Joel,” I heard that voice, “let’s settle it down.  You’re moving too much.  You’re not going to get out of here all at once.  Let’s start building our technique.  First we need the underhook.  Let’s get that next, then we’ll worry about the rest.”

I want instant relief.  I want to be rescued from the place where I am—from the place where I know I’m not supposed to be—and I want to be magically transported forward the future where I’m pretty sure I belong.  I want that prize.  I want that victory.  I want to get from here to there without all the effort in between.

It’s especially difficult because I don’t know the timeline.  It’s not mine to know when this thing—whatever thing is—gets to be over and I get to be done.  I can’t see the future, but I have a good idea of what I think it should look like.  My ideas are seldom right ones.  God has better futures than my limited imagination could ever conceive.  I’m so anchored in what I’m experiencing right now that I have no idea how to trust God’s future.

I’m fond of telling people that the miracle is found in the process, not in the destination.  It’s one of those cliché, almost throw-away lines that I use when I’m comforting or trying to aid someone in crisis.  I’m good at saying useful things to other people.  I should listen to myself. 

The miracle is the process, not the place I think I want to be.

There are times when I recognize this truth, often against my will.  The truth becomes suddenly evident to me.  It might mean I’m malleable, or it might just mean I have no choice but to accept spiritual realities.  They frequently smack me in the face hard enough that I’m no longer allowed to ignore them.

With the right amount of convincing I might choose to embrace the process in the same way that I would embrace an opponent.  I embrace it like I want to choke it into unconsciousness.  If there’s going to be a process I’m going to own it.  I’m going to force it forward and push it to completion. 

I come to God and request—sometimes demand—a checklist.  What do I need to finish this race?  Show me the flow and I’ll meet every requirement.    I like to make deals with God, bargain even.  Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.  Let’s just get it done as quickly as possible.  Show me the path forward and where it leads.  I hate not knowing. I just want Him to reveal the future so that I can see what we’re doing.

That’s one of my favorite prayers, actually.  “God, what are we doing here?”  I yell it Him all the time.  I’m not always terribly respectful about it, either.

God stays oddly silent.  He’s not subject to my demands and he doesn’t acquiesce to my expectations.  More than that, He’s got a flow of his own.  He’s got a plan.  He’s looked far forward into the future where I cannot see—that’s a benefit of existing outside of time, I guess.  He knows what’s required to transform me to the realized version of what He created me to be.

He also knows that I quit when my easily distracted mind takes over, and if I quit I will never see the outcome.  If I know how long the journey will take, I might not be willing to go the distance.  I’m a pain-avoiding creature like that.  I don’t mind earning a few things, but I have self-imposed limitations.  My limitations begin right about the place where my motivation ends, and my motivation easily degrades.

I wanted to end this fight in the first round, and that’s how I was fighting.  I knew that if I could win this thing if I could get him to the ground.  I was a better grappler.  Once we were on the mat I had an extreme advantage.

That was the hard part—the part where I had to get him to the mat.  He knew I was a better grappler, too.  He knew and he didn’t want to fight me on the floor.  He wanted to keep the fight on our feet where he had a better chance.  I chased him the entire first round as he ran away, flicking jabs and occasional crosses at my face.  A few of them touched me.  A couple of them touched me hard.  I managed to close the distance once or twice, but he was slippery.  When the bell rang for the end of that first round I was starting to breathe heavily.  I walked to my corner where my coach met me.

“Stop chasing,” he told me pointedly.  “You’re going to have to stand with this guy.  You’re never going to take him down if you don’t set it up with strikes.  Stop looking for the big technique.  Let’s start doing the little things.  We’re in this for the whole fight, so start fighting like it.”

God doesn’t tell me the whole plan.  Maybe it’s for my best that I don’t know.  The me where I am now might not be ready for the me at the end of the journey, or it might not appreciate the destination.  The journey will transform me because that’s what journeys do.  At the beginning of the journey I won’t be ready for what lies at the end.  The voyage is there to shape me for the destination.

I have a wild mind.  It never stops moving.  When I find myself trying to interpret the future— that imperceptible distance I can’t see the end of—my crazy brain begins to concoct every potential outcome into a story.  I can’t help but seek the worst—then the best—conclusions an active mind can concoct.  I alternate between fear and joy as a porridge of possibilities saturates my thinking.

I see the future I want and find myself growing excited about its impending arrival, but then I see the worst version of my future and become overwhelmed in anxiety.  I vacillate between hopelessness and helplessness because I have no way to affect a future I cannot interpret, no matter how hard I may try.

It freezes me in place.

What strength do I have that I should continue to hope?  What is my future, that I should be patient?  Is my strength that of stone, or my flesh made of bronze?  Since I cannot help myself, the hope for success has been banished from me. (Job 6:11-13) 

I don’t know if joy waits for me at the on the other side of my doubt, but I want to believe it does.  I fear that disappointment will be there instead, because I feel like it’s been there so many times before.  I have a proclivity for dwelling on my failures.  I don’t focus on victories.  It’s not what I do.

I do nothing.  I feel trapped and I refuse to move.  Fear of the future consumes me and I accept the ensuing anxiety as if it were part of me.  I have no idea how to achieve a future that my eyes cannot see.  It’s a darkness lurking long beyond my vision and I fear stepping into the unknown—even when I know it is a blessed unknown.  I choose, instead, to refuse to move.

When I do move, if I decide to move, it’s usually  in the wrong direction.  My first priority is to move away from discomfort, or, at least, toward something familiar.  The familiar places aren’t always comfortable, but they are often a familiar discomfort.  Familiar pain seems preferable to unfamiliar hurts.

He’s one of my best friends and he’s really good at this Jiu-jitsu stuff.  He passed my guard again.  I fought valiantly, but I couldn’t hold him off.  At least I made him work for it, but he found a way, like he usually does, and he moved into a smothering side-control.  My defense is decent, and I was able to stymy his submission attempts.

In response he did a thing he does—a thing he does better than almost anyone I’ve ever trained with.  He transitioned into a knee-on-belly pin.  All of his weight is focused on his knee, and his knee is focused on my belly, or my sternum, or my ribs.  He feels heavier than he is.  He’s pinning me to the floor with the sharpness of his knee, with all of his weigh bearing down on the one point.

And it hurts.

I would call it uncomfortable, but it’s far more than discomfort.  It is actual pain.  It actually hurts.

It’s supposed to hurt.  It’s designed to hurt.

I want to focus on the hurt.  I want to put all my effort into fighting the point of that knee.  I want to address the hurt at the place I feel it most.

But I know it’s  a trap.

If I address the pain I leave an opening.  It’s not the next step in defending this technique.  The next step is to move my hips.  It’s still going to hurt while I do, but I have to accept that.  The discomfort is a distraction from what I need to do next, and if I deal with the distraction before its time my fight will be over.  First things first.  It doesn’t feel natural, but it’s what I need to do next.

It would be easy to move on and move forward with desperation.  I could turn away from the discomfort—from the pain, even—and I could invent my own journey, one that serves the purposes I would prefer.  I could take my moment—my time—of pressure and force it into a thing of slightly less pressure with a couple of easy but ineffective decisions.

That’s not where the best is waiting for me.

Why would I accept less, or even a close second-best?  I could settle because it’s easy.  I could settle because it’s simple and It’s a place I already know how to exist inside of.  I know how to exist inside of second best.  I’ve adapted myself to certain failures, and I’m good at convincing myself that I’m satisfied being there.

The coward’s way is the way of second best.  I fear reaching because I fear failure.  I fear exposing myself to the potential of more hurt, so I ignore the voice of God calling me toward a better future than the one I’ve owned for myself.

I can’t see that future.  I can’t see what it looks like, and I fear what I cannot see.  I’m not sure if it’s a future I am going to want, because I don’t know how to trust.  I don’t know how to trust the future that God is bringing to me.  I struggle to believe that it’s a future I’ll want, even though my heart knows it’s the future I need.

Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding; think about Him in all your ways, and He will guide you on the right paths. (Proverbs 3:5-6) 

The future is too big and the future is too far away.  I can’t hear the voice of God that far.  I can’t hear it because I don’t think that’s where it is.  I think the voice of God is here, in this moment where I am.  It’s here in the time I am anchored in right here and right now.  I can’t believe enough for a future I can’t see in the distance.

But, maybe, must maybe, I can see far enough to see what’s next.  Maybe I can have just enough belief to move to the next instant in time.  I can’t see further than that, and it’s almost difficult to recognize that I don’t need to.  My belief doesn’t need to be strong enough, because a strong belief isn’t a prerequisite to find God’s future for me.

Then Jesus said to him, "'If You can'? Everything is possible to the one who believes."  Immediately the father of the boy cried out, "I do believe! Help my unbelief." (Mark 9:23-24) 

I was told, later, that my voice could be clearly heard on the video recording of the fight.  What mattered to me was that it was heard on the night of the fight, by the fighter I was coaching.

Things had gone poorly for him in the first round.  He’d been caught early and forced to fight defensively while he did his best to recover.  As is the way of fighting, one small mistake had initiated a series of potentially disastrous mistakes.  Now he was fighting from a terrible position after being manhandled by his opponent.

He wasn’t out of the fight, though.  It was bad, for sure, but it wasn’t the worst.  I’d trained with him—spent many rounds with him.  I knew what he was capable of, and I knew what he needed to do. 

My voice was raw from shouting already, but I was shouting over the noise of the crowd to the opposite side of the cage.

“We’re OK here!”  I yelled.  “We’re OK.  We know how to do this.”

I saw him start to calm.  He did know how to do this.  I knew he knew how to do this, because I’d spent that much time with him.

“Now let’s get our head off the cage,” I yelled.  It’s my job to see the things that need to be done, the simple things that need to be done next.

He seemed to hear me, because he moved his head off the cage and established a better defensive position.

“Pressure on the head,” I screamed, doubly excited upon realizing that he heard me.  “Pressure the head and work to your feet.  We’re almost there.”

He was, in fact, almost there.  I knew it because I saw it.  Just a couple movements and it would be a whole different fight.