Unsettled

It’s hard for me to trust peace, especially when if find it inside of me.  I’m skeptical and suspicious that the temporary calm is only a construct of my fractured mind—maybe a forced respite that my brain concocted out of necessity.  My inner machinations are so oriented toward the anxious tendencies inherent in being me that even the most intense version of peace tends to be greeted with resistance before it can even take hold.  I can’t help but feel that every peace is temporary. 

I would have liked nothing more than to finish the match with a submission—to clock out early and call it a day—but he was uncooperative.  I was chasing his arms and his neck, but his defense was phenomenal.  Technically, I was in a dominant position, but he was making me fight for every inch.  He refused to stop moving.  He wouldn’t settle, so I couldn’t settle.

I was behind on the scoreboard—down by two points.  I could see, out of the corner of my eye, that time was becoming a commodity I couldn’t afford to waste.  If he wasn’t going to let me win by submission (and he was making it clear that this was an option he was choosing to take away), then I needed to get some points back.  Two points would tie the match, three points would put me ahead.  Guard-passes are worth three points and I was close to passing his guard.  I could win this match with the pass, but he wouldn’t let me settle into the position long enough for the referee to count the score.

I wanted to throw my body into the technique, but I couldn’t.  He had already proven how strong he was.  At one point in our match he had simply lifted me with his arms to stop my attack—anyone who says strength doesn’t matter in a fight hasn’t spent much time fighting.  Strength very much matters.

And it mattered right now.

He held me at arm’s length while I frantically moved my hips in desperate attempts to get past his frames.  His skill, combined with his strength, kept my technique at bay, holding me just out of range.  I felt myself growing frustrated—I was so close—but I didn’t have time for frustration.  The last minute was turning into the last seconds of the match.  I needed my points.  I needed my guard pass.  I needed him stop moving, but he wouldn’t.

I couldn’t settle.

Warriors are always at war, and I feel like I’m always at war, ususally with myself.  I live a life of unsettled.  It’s my natural inclination.  I’m almost allergic to peace.  Even in the times when I find it, I don’t trust it.  I wish I could embrace solace easily, but even the idea of living peacefully stresses me out.

Maybe peace feels boring.  Maybe that’s why I don’t like it.  Nobody likes to read a story or watch a movie where there’s no conflict.  The conflict is the point of the story.  If there’s nothing to overcome, then there’s no victory.  That might be why I have a natural aversion to peace.  There might be a pathology inside of me that demands conflict.

In the world of my mind peace is an untrustworthy and precarious thing.  Even in the glorious temporary times when I do manage to find it—to find peace—my unsettled mind refuses to relax into it.  It’s already preparing for what happens when that peace comes to an end.

There I was in a foxhole in Ft. Benning, GA with a rifle in my hands.  Tomorrow was qualification day—the culmination of my basic training marksmanship training.  This was my last practice run before testing day, and I was feeling pretty good about my performance.  I wasn’t a natural marksman like a lot of the soldiers in my platoon, and I wasn’t terribly experienced with firearms, but I had managed to absorb some instruction.

I found a rhythm.  I watched my lane carefully as targets popped up, steadied my breathing, pressed the trigger, and maintained my sight picture almost precisely as I had been taught.  I watched the first targets drop as my round found center, then moved to the next and did it again.  I transitioned between targets smoothly and almost easily.

Then I had a thought. I thought about how well it was going.  I thought about how well I was doing.

I missed the next target—not by much, but I saw the plume of earth slightly to the left of where I had been aiming.  A moment of frustration spiked when I saw that cloud and the transition to my next target was too hurried.  I missed that one, too.

My focus shifted—shifted to somewhere it shouldn’t have been.  My next round missed as I hurried to snap a round at the next target.  I wasn’t even close that time.

I heard a too-familiar voice behind me, loud even on a range full of gunfire—the company first sergeant.  “Slow it down, Private!  You’re way too jumpy.”

I’m allergic to peace.  I’m allergic to calm.  I’m allergic to tranquility.  Even when I find it, I don’t trust it.  I’ll convince myself that it’s not peace at all.

I think of Jesus’ disciples on the boat in the middle of the storm—all of them thinking they’re about to die...

A fierce windstorm arose, and the waves were breaking over the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped.

But He was in the stern, sleeping on the cushion. So they woke Him up and said to Him, "Teacher! Don't You care that we're going to die?"

He got up, rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, "Silence! Be still!" The wind ceased, and there was a great calm.

Then He said to them, "Why are you fearful? Do you still have no faith?" (Mark 4:37-40) 

I think some part of me understands finding peace in the center of the storm.  That might be the place where I thrive.  I’m good at chaos—well, I’m good at it professionally.  I might not be so good at it recreationally.  A piece of me can comprehend the art of calm in the tempest.

But when the calm comes, I don’t know how to trust it.  I don’t know how to settle and enjoy stillness.  If I had been on that boat, I’m pretty sure I would have been amazed—how could not have been?  My faith would have increased exponentially.  But within moments, I would have been looking out over the hull of the boat wondering when the storm was going to return.  I would have been terrifying myself at the future thought of a storm that had already been banished.  I would have been fighting against an imaginary enemy that hadn’t arrived, even if Jesus was still in the boat with me. 

I wonder sometimes what Jesus did after He rebuked the storm.  I wonder if He went back to sleep.  I wonder if He did it just to prove a point.  He put the weather at peace and went back to sleep, just to show what how peaceful peace is.

"Why are you fearful? Do you still have no faith?"

Why is my peace so fleeting?  Probably because my faith is so weak.  I have a weak faith.

Maybe I don’t trust peace because I’m exhausted.  I don’t get to peace peacefully—I must fight for every iota of it.  I think I have grown accustomed to fighting and, when I’m finally on the other side of the battle have no idea what to do.  I don’t think I know how to hold still and not battle.  Peace is uncertain and unfamiliar.  I don’t know how to settle into it.  A lack of conflict—especially an inner conflict—makes me strangely uncomfortable.

In those rare times when my spirit does find peace it feels artificial.  It tastes saccharine.  I remain on guard—which is no way to enjoy peace—with my hands full of weapons and ready to do battle.  It’s unsettling.  It’s also exhausting.

When I ask myself the difficult question—when I ask why I don’t know how to enjoy peace—the answer manifests quite simply.  I don’t trust my peace because I don’t trust myself.  I know I’m going to wreck and ruin it, so what’s the point of enjoying it?  I’ll chase it away before it ever has the chance to take root.  I’ll destroy my own peace before I can appreciate it because I don’t know how to settle.  All it takes is one small mistake and all the peace falls apart.

I know I need my points.  We’ve been fighting from inside of my guard for a while, but I finally manage to hit a reversal.  I catch him by surprise and manage to fight…almost…into a dominant position.  He just won’t let me advance.

He’s strong.  He’s athletic.  He’s very good at Jiu-jitsu.  He’s all the things that are difficult to fight.

Today, maybe just today, I’d like to be better at Jiu-jitsu than he is.  But he is fighting against me with a fierce determination.  He knows he is ahead by two points, but that if I can put him on his back and control him for just a few seconds I will earn three points.  Three points might mean I win.

He knows it and refuses to let me put him on his back.  He is desperately straining against me.

I feel bad for how hard I crossface him, but I really want this win.  He’s a good guy.  We talked for a while before this match started.  He would crossface me, though, if our positions were reversed.  Right now, I have to—I have to crossface him, because I need to put him on his back.

Slowly, in increments like a ratchet, I begin to drive his hips across the mat while my forearm pressures his face.  His shoulders find the ground and I can still feel him fighting against me.  We are both exhausted—it’s been a long day of tough matches—but neither of us wants to lose.  He doesn’t want me to hold him here. I know I have to.

I hear a voice.  “Joel, settle!”  It’s my coach, sitting in his coach’s chair, knowing what I need to do.  He’s taught me how to do it and shown me how.

“Joel, settle!”  I hear the same, but from a different place.  I can’t lift my eyes to see, but I recognize the voice.  It’s one of my best friends.  He’s my best training partner.  We’ve logged hundreds of training hours together.  He knows me well.  He knows what I know how to do.

“Professor, settle!”  That’s one of my young students.  He’s using my title because he respects me.  He’s shouting what he hears the black belts shouting because he wants to add his voice.  It’s a good thing to shout because they’re right.

In that moment I begin to realize that I know how to settle.  I know how to win this position.  I know how to settle into this place because I know the proper technique.  It’s not mine—it’s a principle that belongs to the art of Jiu-jitsu.  It’s basics.  It’s foundations.  It’s not mine, and I know how to do it.

My peace isn’t mine.  It doesn’t belong to me.  I didn’t create it.   I can’t create it, even at my best.  My best thinking is what brought me to the place of turmoil and angst.  Whatever peace I create for myself will, most certainly, become that artificial, saccharine peace that I so despise.

This peace doesn’t belong to me.  It’s not mine.  I can’t ruin it, because the peace is indestructible.  This peace belongs to my God and I don’t have the power to wreck what He owns.  Peace doesn’t belong to me.

I can’t seek to grasp the peace—the peace isn’t what I’m looking for.  I’m looking for the source of that peace.  I’m looking to its very creator.  I don’t own peace, but I know who does.  That is the place that I can take hold of.

Many times—most of the time—it takes a moment for me to clutch that peace.  My grip is weak, just like my faith.  I’m not sure if that’s me fighting against God or me fighting against my nature—maybe they’re the same thing.  I’ve got a lot of damage, and I’ve made a lot of poor choices.  Those choices have left marks and left scars.  Those marks and scars create involuntary reactions that say I don’t deserve peace. 

It’s not about what I deserve.  It’s not my peace, so I can’t give it to myself.  It’s been given to me, so I can’t take it away.  It is a peace beyond my understanding.

"Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Your heart must not be troubled or fearful. (John 14:27) 

When that peace comes it comes with something unexpected.  Certainly, it dispels the fear and it chases away the anxiety.  But it does something more.  It brings with it joy.  And when joy collides with peace, I find just a little hope.  Hope is a place where I can settle.  It’s the place where I can rest.

(Romans 15:13)  Now may the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you believe in Him so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.