Trust

Everything burned.  It burned in a bad way.  In short, I was physically exhausted.  I’m not a biologist, but there was probably some sort of lactic acid involved. The opponent I faced was a pretty big dude, and maybe he seemed bigger because I was so spent.  I had competed earlier in a grappling exhibition, in front of a whole crowd of people.  It hadn’t been my best performance, but I consoled myself with the fact that the team I had competed against thought enough of my skillset that they had searched around the state to “recruit” a grappler specifically to compete against me (rather than one from the team they already maintained).  It was kind of like cheating, but it was also kind of like flattery. I had competed against a very tough opponent and, because I wasn’t smart, I had decided to go ahead and compete in my regular bracket, as well.  Of course, as usual in those days, there wasn’t anyone in my natural bracket, so I went ahead and competed a weight class above my own. So, here I found myself dealing with the adrenaline dump of having fought in front of a crowd as well as the physical challenge of a bracket of advanced grapplers with more size and weight than I.  I have to admit that I was pretty in my head, too.  I hated losing matches and I hated, even more, losing them in front of a few hundred people. Even after all these years, I still remember what that opponent looked like.  He was wearing matching brown shorts and rash guard—and he felt really strong.  We had clinched up and started working the pummel—underhooks, head control, body-lock—but he wasn’t giving anything up.  And I was spent.  Every movement burned like fire.  He almost took me down, and I expended precious calories to keep myself on my feet.  Then I tried to take him down—and he countered.  That cost me a small reserve of my precious drive.  I kind of wished I hadn’t even tried, because now I was more tired than I was.  The only thing keeping me on my feet was my ego and my fear of letting my team down, and of letting my coaches down. And one of them was there, standing mat-side, screaming at me—“SINGLE LEG!  JOEL, SINGLE LEG, NOW!” But I was so tired.  My quads felt like I might have injured them (I knew I hadn’t).  I wasn’t sure if I had the drive, or the push, to get to the single leg.  It was so far away.  And he might crush me—he already had a couple of times.  And if I missed, I would be that much more tired.  And if I missed, I would look stupid in front of all these people.  I had already looked stupid in front of them once.  I had no desire to do it again. And still I heard him yelling, “Joel, single leg.  Single leg now!” How often do I find myself doubting?  Doubting my coaches, doubting myself, doubting my God. I find myself on a path, in a fight, standing in the storm—I find myself there and I know that God has set the path before me.  I can hear Him whisper in my ear, I watch him answer my prayers, I experience those fleeting moments of peace when I allow his Spirit to actually take hold of the places he already owns. And still I doubt. I doubt in anger.  I doubt in despair.  I doubt in frustration and in anxiety. I doubt. I doubt because I am weak and doubt is my default.  It’s like being tired—it’s easy to be tired.  And it’s easy to doubt. Immediately Jesus reached out His hand, caught hold of him, and said to him, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" (Matthew 14:31) That’s me!  I’m the guy of little faith.  I’m the guy who sees the waves, who sees the storm.  And then I doubt.  I doubt everything.  If I’m honest with myself, it doesn’t even have to be waves and storms—my panic rises at the sight of a small raindrop.  One small thing goes the way I don’t approve and every doubt rises with a vengeance. And there I was, exhausted, sliding on the mats in pools of my own sweat.  I was digging for underhooks, working my opponent’s head, defending his attempts and just trying to get this fight to the ground or earn even a single point.  And still my coach was screaming for the single leg. Did he have any idea how exhausted I was?  Did he know that my body hurt?  Had he seen me embarrass myself in that exhibition match?  Why would he expect me to chase a single leg in my condition? He expected it because he knew what I was capable of. LORD, You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I stand up; You understand my thoughts from far away. You observe my travels and my rest; You are aware of all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue, you know all about it, LORD. You have encircled me; You have placed Your hand on me. (Psalms 139:1-5) The man had spent countless hours on the mats with me, refining my technique and my mindset.  He hadn’t just been my coach—he had been my trainer.  He worked directly with me, grinding out round after round.  He had taught me what to do, demonstrated how to do it, and then made me repeat it until I got it right.  After all that time, he knew me at my best and he knew me at my worst.  And he knew what I was capable of, even right now. 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) And still, I find myself refusing to trust where God is taking me.  I resist and fight, but I resist and fight in the exact wrong directions.  Sometimes God’s direction is clear and sometimes it is a mystery, but I will rail against either one.  And half of the fight is being willing to hear what God is trying to say, because I am really bad at trusting God! 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) And so I found myself in the middle of that match, looking that that single leg that my coach was yelling for and doubting my ability to find it.  But I also knew that my coach knew me and would not expect something of me that he didn’t expect I could execute.  He was the one who had taught me that single leg, he was the one who had drilled it, quite harshly, into my motor memory.  He was the one who had not let me quit practice until he was satisfied with my performance. I am reminded of the man who brought his demon-possessed son to Jesus for healing.  He was desperate when he said to Jesus, “But if You can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.'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 9:22-24)

 I think I only just started to understand the flow of this desperate conversation recently, when this father told Jesus, “but if you can do anything.”  That’s my kind of faith, the “if” kind of faith.  The “can you really do this, God” kind of faith.  The kind that tells God that I’ll trust Him, just a little bit, but first He’s going to have to earn it.  He’s going to have to prove that I can trust him, but I’ll only give Him a little bit to start.  And, maybe, if it goes my way, I’ll trust a little more.

But then it stops going my way, because I get in the way.

And I negotiate my faith into doubt so much.  God proves Himself time after time.  He gives me clarity and He gives me wisdom.  He makes his presence clear and He performs the miraculous so that I see His work on full display.  And within the day I am doubting Him again.  My faith is so tiny and it is so unstable—it’s just waiting to implode. And so I yell, I scream—sometimes out loud--, “I do believe, but only a little bit today, definitely not enough.  I doubt so much right now.  You resolved my doubt yesterday, but I let it back in.  And now it’s looking me in the eye.  It’s bigger than me and I’m exhausted.  I’ve already embarrassed myself into exhaustion.  I’ve got more doubt than faith today, God.”

I DO BELIEVE! HELP MY UNBELIEF!

And so I had a choice.  I could listen to my coach—the guy who had developed every good thing about me—or I could just keep on doing what I was doing.  What I was doing wasn’t working.  I had just a little faith, a little energy to invest.  Would he really ask me to do it if he didn’t know I could?  He had been in that training fire with me so many times.

And so I did. It might have been an ugly single leg, or it might have been a beautiful one.  I can’t remember.  I was exhausted and there wasn’t enough oxygen in my brain to recall the details.  I just remember that I listened.  I shot the single leg. And my opponent fell down.  I got the takedown. I got it just second before bell rang.  Two points just before the match ended. Enough for a victory.  Enough to get my hand raised.  I think I might have gotten a medal—I don’t remember.

But I do remember the conversation with my coach after I walked off the mats, tired and barely able to hold my head up.  “I wish you had done that sooner,” he said to me.  “He was heavy on his front leg and he wasn’t guarding it.  Your single leg is your best takedown and he was not in a place where he could stop it.  I wish you had done it sooner, but I’m glad you finally listened.  I’m glad you got the win.”

Because my coach was seeing everything that I wasn’t.  His viewpoint was wider and better than anything I could see.  I was in the fight, but he could see everything.  And he was smarter than me—better a fighting.  He was watching the detail and the nuance.  He knew exactly what I was capable of doing and what the fight demanded of me.  Everything I couldn’t see was well within his vision.

God sees it all better than I.  There are no shadows in His eyes.  I know He sees the whole story, but I struggle to let him write my part of the narrative.  I’m worried about what it might look like if I let Him take the lead.  I guess trust is a process, not a destination.  I’m trying to trust God to write this story, and this bvery specific part of the story that is happening today—right now.  I’m not doing a very good job.

I DO BELIEVE! HELP MY UNBELIEF!

But God sees this whole thing far beyond what I see.  His story is better than mine.  It’s got better characters, crazier plot twists, and serious tension.  But the tension brings resolution.  The resolution is a better story than I could ever wright.  Because I can’t see the story, not from where I’m sitting.  So I’m trying to learn about trust, even though I’m not doing a very good job of it.  But I do believe, even if just a little bit.

No creature is hidden from Him, but all things are

naked and exposed to the eyes of Him to whom we must give an account. (Hebrews 4:13)