Persistence

It’s a thing I tend to do because it’s the way I am made to be.  Sometimes it works in my favor and sometimes…well…not so much.  I’ve got a stubborn streak and a slight compulsion toward obsession.  It makes things interesting.

I had taken a Saturday with my coach and a few teammates to attend a seminar being presented by someone who, at that time, was considered as one of the best Jiu-jitsu players in the world.  I was fascinated by what he was teaching and, to be honest, it was out of my depth.  The way he moved, the philosophy behind his style—it was diametrically opposed to the way I rolled.

He was obviously a better grappler than me and was also much smaller.  He moved like a small guy—quick and fluid.  I tended to move like a large sloth.  I wasn’t a heavyweight necessarily, but my entire game was predicated on deliberate advancing movement.  That’s a nice way of saying that I moved slowly.

A significant section of the seminar was dedicated to a guard system that would have been considered new and groundbreaking at the time.  It was considered to be a “small man’s game” that relied on active hips and a willingness to dive directly into the areas where an opponent was strongest. 

My hips were not nearly as active as his.  I couldn’t move nearly as fast as he could.  I preferred my safety and my reliable attacks.  I was much larger than he was, so I couldn’t fit myself in the same tight spaces as he could.  But, for some reason, I found myself fascinated by this new guard system that I knew nothing about.  When I left that seminar, I decided that I was going to adopt this new guard and I was going to make it mine.

The seminar occurred on a Saturday and I didn’t train on Sunday, so Monday was the next day that I made it to the academy.  I had every intention of embracing this new guard system that I decided I wanted to love.  I found a partner who was free to work with me and checked my notes from the seminar.  I drilled the techniques a few times to remind myself what they were supposed to feel like.

When it came time to open up the mats for sparring, I told myself that I was going to figure out this guard and its set of techniques.  I did something in my brain to commit myself to it.  There was no good reason for it.  I had just decided I wanted to force myself to learn this guard.

When the first opportunity came to try my new obsession, I took a chance at the set up.  I was diving under the hips and looking to capture the leg (just like I had been taught at the seminar) when I encountered a very pronounced obstacle.  The hard bone of my partner’s forearm was waiting for my upper lip.  He had no idea what I was trying to do—he just reacted with a good crossface.  My excitability—my desire to snag that guard—drove me into hard impact.  I came away from that attempt with a palpable laceration inside of my upper lip.

This was not a fortuitous first attempt and my following attempts didn’t fare much better.  In my stubbornness and my desire to understand this new guard concept I dedicated myself to it.  I refused to not keep trying, and my refusal was painful.  I was bad at this technique, and my badness was costly.  I was getting crushed by white belts and tapped by grapplers who were nowhere near my peers.  My throat was being smashed and my face—which has never been pretty—was getting even less pretty.

But I’m stubborn and I’m a little bit obsessive.  I don’t know if that’s a gift or a curse.  Maybe it’s just a thing that I am, whether it’s good or not.

I finished with my face bloody more than once.  I left practices feeling defeated.  I can’t move like a little guy because I’m not a little guy.  There were lots of other ways to play guard and I could focus on those—many of them made actual sense to my body and the way I moved.  But, for some reason, I couldn’t let go of this one.  I had to make it work for me.  So, I stuck with it despite the pain.

It didn’t happen overnight, or in a week, or even in a month.  It was a long labor of determination.  Every time I would get crushed (and I was getting crushed a lot), I would refuse to stop trying.  I kept going back, time after time.

And it started to make sense, just a little bit at a time.

I began to understand the movement.  I started finding the grips I needed.  I developed a little nuance.

Once I started to understand the technique, I was able to commit even more to it—and that commitment cost me even more than it had before.  My half-understanding of the concept placed me in even worse positions.  They were places so deep into the attempt that I could not retreat.  My teammates took full advantage of how trapped I was.

I still wasn’t willing to give up.  For months I chased that guard system—through bloody lips, bloody noses, and a bloodied ego.  It hurt.  It hurt a lot.  But the more I committed the closer I came to it.  It wasn’t until months later when I started to find my way through it—it became my “thing”.  I started to hit it on the upper belts, then on the other black belts.  It changed the way my training partners approached me, because it was now a thing they had to respect.  The entire texture of my matches started to change.

To this day, it’s still a significant part of my game.  It’s something I’m a little bit known for.  Other fighters respect it about me and know to be cautious in my guard.  They fight to avoid it.

It’s a technique I have only because I know how to take a beating.  I know how to be persistent.

I wish I could find a way to pull my natural stubbornness into my spiritual life.  I’m not great at it.  I quit too easily.

The other day I found myself praying.  These days my prayers alternate between yelling at God and randomly spewing the nonsense that is trapped in my mind to Him.  He seems to be listening—there’s some evidence of that, I think.

I found myself, again, stuck on a thing that my mind is obsessing over—it’s a problem that I can’t solve for myself.  So, I’m bringing it to God—AGAIN.  I’ve been bringing it to Him multiple times a day, for the last several weeks, and for the past several months.  I’ve been bringing it, but it doesn't feel like it’s changing.

In my…rage, hurt, anger, frustration?...I found myself screaming out loud to God, “are you tired of hearing this from me yet?”

Because I often assume that God is like me.  I imagine that He has the same limitations and frustrations.  I can’t think of a reason He wants to hear me pray—or whine or complain—about the same thing again.  But I’m nothing like God and God is nothing like me.

God doesn’t have the capacity to grow tired of my prayers.

Pray constantly. (1 Thessalonians 5:17) 

I was complaining to a close friend about this recently. I was trying to explain how…silly…I feel about hashing the same thing over and over with God.  It feels like whining.  To be frank, it feels like weakness.  I hate being weak, but I can’t stop being weak, either.

My friend is a good friend, and he’s got a fair amount of spiritual wisdom living inside of him.  “That’s what’s on your heart,” he said to me, “and you pray what’s on your heart.  It’s in your mind, and God wants to hear about what’s in your mind.”

My salvation and glory depend on God, my strong rock. My refuge is in God.  Trust in Him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts before Him. God is our refuge. Selah. (Psalms 62:7-8) 

It still feels like whining, though.  The things I pray about aren’t deep and complicated things.  I don’t think that advanced.  My capacity for prayer seems to be largely limited to the things happening right in front of me—the stuff that I can’t ignore because it’s in my face in the moment.

And I’m supposed to pray about that.  I’m supposed to keep bringing it to God, even when it doesn’t feel like anything is changing.

I was reminded recently—very recently—of a couple of stories that Jesus told. 

He then told them a parable on the need for them to pray always and not become discouraged:

There was a judge in a certain town who didn't fear God or respect man.  And a widow in that town kept coming to him, saying, “Give me justice against my adversary.”

For a while he was unwilling, but later he said to himself, “Even though I don't fear God or respect man, yet because this widow keeps pestering me, I will give her justice, so she doesn't wear me out by her persistent coming."

Then the Lord said, "Listen to what the unjust judge says. Will not God grant justice to His elect who cry out to Him day and night? Will He delay to help them?” (Luke 18:1-7) 

If an unjust judge can listen to a constant pestering (I kind of love that word choice. It describes my style of prayer perfectly), can I even begin to imagine what my God is waiting to answer me with?

He also said to them: "Suppose one of you has a friend and goes to him at midnight and says to him, 'Friend, lend me three loaves of bread, because a friend of mine on a journey has come to me, and I don't have anything to offer him.'

Then he will answer from inside and say, 'Don't bother me! The door is already locked, and my children and I have gone to bed. I can't get up to give you anything.'

I tell you, even though he won't get up and give him anything because he is his friend, yet because of his friend's persistence, he will get up and give him as much as he needs.

"So I say to you, keep asking, and it will be given to you. Keep searching, and you will find. Keep knocking, and the door will be opened to you.

For everyone who asks receives, and the one who searches finds, and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.  What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead of a fish?  Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?  If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him?" (Luke 11:5-13) 

God invites my persistence.  He’s not annoyed by it.  He’s not bothered by it.  He desires it.  He wants to hear all about what’s first in my mind.

Because I am nothing like God, and He is nothing like me.

I find myself praying—agonizing—for a solution to some matter that has claimed forefront in my mind.  I have great ideas of how I would like God to answer this prayer.  I’ve already written the story for Him.  He’s going to love the way it ends.  I just need Him to do some God stuff and make my wildest dreams come true.

But, even as dull as I might be, I have come to realize that God’s plans are way above what I can even imagine.  He’s going to answer my prayer in the way He knows is best for me, even if it’s not the way that I know is best for me. He isn’t always going to answer those desperate prayers in the way that I want Him to—He’s going to answer them better.  His story is way better written than mine, but I don’t know how to get myself out of the way.

Looking unto Jesus the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising shame, and hath sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:2)

Still, I find myself whining and complaining to God because He refuses to give me the story I’m asking for.  Yet He doesn’t want to stop hearing from me.  He can handle my hurt.  He can handle my disappointment.  He understands my frustration.

He wants to hear all about it.

He’s interested and He’s curious.  And He already knows.  I can’t hide myself from Him, so there’s not much point in trying.  He knows everything and still wants to hear me talk about it with Him.

When I move in my conversations with God I start to find short glimpses into His eyes.  They tend to be subtle, but from time to time there might be explosive revelations that change my entire existence in a single moment.  Those moments are rare.  God tends to deal with me at the same deliberate pace that I like to spar at—methodical and deliberate.  Maybe He knows that I’ll understand better at that pace.

Sure, I’m praying that God will hear my prayer and do exactly what I’m asking from Him.  After all, He’s God, and God has unlimited resources.  He could fix it all.

But He’s probably not going to give me what I’m asking for.  He’s going to give me something more. He’s going to give me something better.  And He’s going to keep talking to me about it, even if I’m not great at the conversation. 

He doesn’t need me to be great at it.

He just likes to hear from me.

Now to Him who is able to do above and beyond all that we ask or think according to the power that works in us—to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen. (Ephesians 3:20-21)