Weaknesses

I was exhausted, but it was the good kind of exhausted.  The match had been a hard-fought battle at a grueling, non-stop pace.  That’s the way every one of my matches had played out today—not one of them had been easy.  But that’s the way I like it.  It made me feel like I’d gotten my money’s worth.

I was stepping off the mats to make room for the next pair of competitors when I found myself standing next to my most recent opponent’s coach.  He’s an old friend who I’ve known for a long time.  He’s an excellent coach.

“Great match, brother,” he said as he shook my hand and pulled me into a big Jiu-jitsu hug.  “You looked great out there.  Tommy said you’re very strong.”

Tommy was suddenly standing with us, looking as sweaty and gross as I imagined I did.  “Yeah, your half-guard was so tight.  I couldn’t advance at all.  It was so strong.”

I smiled graciously and thanked them for their praise.  I complimented Tommy on his performance, as well, and complimented his coach on having trained such an excellent fighter.  We shook hands and separated. 

I appreciated the compliments.  These were men whose opinions I greatly valued—one because he is a legend in my area the other because I had just actively competed against him.  They had both been genuine and genuinely complimentary.  But it felt wrong.

Because I’m not strong.

I’ve never been strong.  I’m a big guy, I know, but that’s not the same thing as being strong.  I’ve spent enough time around strong people to know that I’m not one of them.  I’ve lifted weights and completed conditioning programs, but those mostly proved to me how strong I wasn’t.

I’ve never been strong.

As a child I liked sports, but I wasn’t good at any of them.  I was diagnosed as dyslexic and dyspraxic in grade school.  My brain struggled to communicate effectively with my body.  In short, I was clinically clumsy.  I manifested a low caliber of coordination and strained with fine-motor control.  I had no physical prowess at all.

I was the sort of kid who could trip walking up stairs and then trip walking back down.  I had a hard time doing two activities at once, and most sports included more than one activity.  The only thing I was passably good at was running—that was a simple task I could complete.  But if I was asked to kick something, throw something, catch something, or bounce something while I ran, I would reach maximum coordination capacity immediately.  It was an unfortunate combination that made me really bad at every sport that involved more than running.  I was a pretty good runner for a little while, because running didn’t require much motor control. 

I wasn’t the sort of guy who spent much time in the weight room, even as a youth.  While my friends were learning to bench-press, deadlift, and squat I was reading.  I liked books a lot.  Of course, I liked TV and movies and all those things, too.  I didn’t take the time to make myself strong because I didn’t care a whole lot about the idea of being strong.  Honestly, I didn’t believe I could ever become strong, so I never tried.

I had grown up with a fantastical love of the martial arts—I was obsessed with action movies involving punching and kicking and acrobatic versions of combat.  It was something that my dad and I bonded over.  Eventually, as I traveled into the late years of my adolescence, I decided to give it a try.

It was a big step for me.  I decided to take a risk and place my own safety in jeopardy.  I knew how unlikely an endeavor the martial arts would be for a ridiculously clumsy kid like me.  But I was blessed with great instructors.  They managed to help me find a way, despite my best (worst) efforts.

I have never been the sort of person that things come easily to, especially athletic things.  I struggled severely.  I quickly learned how strong I wasn’t.  I was moved around, pushed around, and upended seemingly at will.  I was a skinny uncoordinated kid who could barely stay on his feet.

But I refused to stop coming back.

For all my failures and for all my weaknesses I had found something that I loved.  I wasn’t good at it, but I loved it.  I organized my school and work schedules around mat times so I could assure I didn’t miss a moment.  I was probably a little annoying to some of my teachers, because there were many times I would show up as the only student in class—they could have just closed if I hadn’t been there.

It was an addiction of sorts, a compulsion at best.

It took me a long time to achieve anything resembling competence.  First, I had to learn to survive.  That’s where my first nickname came from.  My training partners—all of them bigger and much stronger than me—started calling me a weasel.  It wasn’t necessarily a compliment.  I developed an ability to take a beating but not quit.  I would fight off submissions, absorb punches and kicks, and fight back to my feet with a stubbornness.  I wasn’t winning. I was being obstructionist.  I wasn’t letting my training partners win the way they wanted to. 

They called me a weasel because I weaseled my way out and kept fighting, even when I was obviously losing.  I didn’t have much of anything to offer in the way of strength or technique.  All I had was a little determination and a love for the arts.  I couldn’t make myself not show up.  I wasn’t having fun all the time, but the things we love aren’t always fun. 

I still remember the first time I submitted anyone at Jiu-jitsu.  It’s a core memory even to this day.  My training partner was much better than me, but I found an opening and I exploited it.  I went home fulfilled and satisfied that night.  It was a long time before I won another sparring match, but I discovered the benefit of technique.  I had discovered that there was some ability to win a fight somewhere inside of me.

Beat your plows into swords and your pruning knives into spears. Let even the weakling say, "I am a warrior."  (Joel 3:10) 

I am an exceedingly weak man, and I ‘ve grown accustomed to it.  I also hate it about myself.  I hate being weak, and I hate acknowledging that I am.

I do everything I can to hide it.  I’ve curated an intentional façade.  I am well-aware that, when viewed from the outside, I appear to present as a strong and confident individual.

I’ve worked hard on that front.

I am not strong, and I am not confident.

It’s a lie, and I’m a liar.

I’m an exceedingly weak man.

My façade is nothing but a thin veneer, and it is a veneer that is doomed to crumble under the slightest pressure.  Just one push in the right—in the wrong—place, and the whole masquerade disintegrates.  What’s left behind is me, the weak me that is the me behind the façade.  I do everything I can to hide it, but hiding eventually becomes impossible.

I struggle with my emotions, I struggle with my thinking, I struggle in my spirit.  I shouldn’t struggle, but I do.  I should be stronger, but I’m not.  I expect better of myself, but still I fail.  I fail every day, because I am weak.

I don’t want anyone to see my weaknesses.  I despise them.  I despise them about myself.

I was speaking to a close friend not too long ago about one of my many weaknesses.  It’s one of those recurring ones that keeps surfacing.  Sometimes I think I’ve finally addressed it enough that I can breathe, but it always finds a way to show back up.  And here it was again.  My weakness had once again revealed how weak I truly am.

“Joel,” he said, looking me in the eyes, “I don’t think you have any idea what it’s like to  be normal.  You’ve spent most of your life in disruption.  Everything in your life is built around disruption.  When normal comes, you have no idea what to do with it.”

It was profound.  It was profound because he was right.

I’m not strong enough to be normal.  My weakness is so pervasive that I can’t even achieve a baseline starting point.  I’m something similar to abnormal in so many ways.  I live in a constant state of disruption because I’m weak.

But I don’t want my weakness to define me.

I didn’t even know that I was doing what I was doing until my coach yelled at me.

“What is that thing?” he stomped over toward me.  “It’s driving me crazy and I have to say something?”

“What thing?” I asked, confused.

“That thing with your lead foot.  You keep picking it up and putting it down.  You’re not putting any weight on it.”

I hadn’t noticed what I was doing.  It had been automatic and unthinking.  It didn’t take much brainpower for me to remember why I was so light on that lead foot.

“I took a hard knee to the thigh a while back.  I’m trying not to get kicked in the leg, so I think I’m nervous and staying ready to check.”

“Well,” he said, “It’s ruining your footwork and you look stupid.  How hurt is it?”

Again, I hadn’t even realized what I was doing.  It didn’t hurt at all.  The injury had happened three weeks ago and I was still defending it.  It didn’t hurt anymore and I didn’t need to protect it, but I still was.

There are times—many times—when my weaknesses are damages that I learn to accommodate.  I find a way to work around them so they won’t be exposed.  I develop entire approaches and attitudes with no purpose other than to conceal my weaknesses.  I might become dismissive of them or, even from time to time, allow them to become integrated into my personality.

Those are times when I am not necessarily weak—not weak at my core.  Rather, I am injured.  I am hurt and I am damaged.  I don’t think those are the same things as weakness, but they certainly feel the same.  My brain can’t tell the difference. 

I simply feel like an exceedingly weak man.

But I don’t want my weaknesses to define me.  I don’t want my hurts to be the most significant thing about me.  Hiding my flaws requires too much energy, and it prevents me from finding peace—because the definition of peace is completeness.  I can’t be complete if I’m celebrating my weaknesses, hiding my weaknesses, or letting my weaknesses rule over me.

I don’t know how to make myself be complete.  I’ve tried so many times.

I remember several years into my MMA career—some time just after I was finishing out my amateur career and staring my professional career.  I was somewhere in public, outside of the regular gym, when he and I crossed paths at an event.  I hadn’t realized that I’d walked past him when I came into the room.

He found me a little bit later, and, in the middle of our conversation, began speaking to me.  “I saw you from the back,” he said, “and for a moment I didn’t recognize you.  I remember when we first started training together, and you’ve changed so much over the last couple years.  Your shoulders are broader, you walk straighter, and your movement is so much different.”

My body had shaped itself to the thing it was doing, and the thing I was doing was learning to fight.  My body had acclimated itself to that activity.  It had learned to be stronger without me realizing what was happening.  I was passionate about being on the mats and I was passionate about fighting, so I kept showing up.  Gradually, and without my clear knowledge, constant training was forcing change.  I had grown stronger.

(Isaiah 40:29)  He gives strength to the weary and strengthens the powerless.

I had never been physically strong, but I had good coaches.  They didn’t help me celebrate my weakness.  They taught me to overcome it.  They taught me to overcome it with technique.  Obviously, strength did matter—stronger people have a definite advantage.  But the gift of technique allowed me to overcome my weakness.  It was an equalizer that gave me a competitive chance.

The technique I learned was nothing new.  It had been around for centuries—maybe even for millennia.  But it was new to me.  It was a thing—a series of things—that was redefining everything about me.

I’ve been frequently told that God doesn’t give me more than I can handle, but maybe I misunderstand that concept just a little bit.  It’s possible God does sometimes give me more than I can handle so that He can show me what I can handle in Him.  I am weak, yes, but His strength redefines everything about me.

No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to humanity. God is faithful, and He will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation He will also provide a way of escape so that you are able to bear it. (1 Corinthians 10:13) 

I don’t always love it—I don’t think I love it at all—but God is in a constant state of addressing my weaknesses.  He’s letting me fight my way into and out of seemingly overwhelming situations so that He can prove to me what I am capable of when I rely on the proper source of strength.  That strength isn’t mine.  I’m an exceedingly weak man, but I am able to do all things through Him who strengthens me. (Philippians 4:13) 

The process of finding strength isn’t always a pleasant one, though.  I do believe in the miraculous, but God doesn’t disappear my limitations into the void—at least, not typically.  It’s possible that the miracle is found in the process.  When I identify my flaws—or they are identified for me—I am given the choice as to how I address them.  I can ignore them, hide them, protect them, or…or, I can attack them.  I can make the choice to put in the work and make the effort.  I can choose not to celebrate my weaknesses by allowing them to linger.

I still remember—to this day all these years later—the training session that changed everything about the way I fought.  It was a 2-hour soul-crushing practice that paid massive benefits.  But it came at a cost.

It was me and my coach that night, just the two of us.  Nobody else had shown up.  I was considering leaving—I didn’t want to take a bunch of his time to just train me—but that wasn’t his plan.

“OK,” he said.  “It’s just you and I tonight.  What do you need to work on?”

It was something of a loaded question.  The easy answer would have been “everything” or “whatever you think I need to work on”, but I knew that wasn’t what he was looking for.  He wanted an honest answer from me.

And there was an aspect of my game that was lacking more than the others.  I knew it was lacking and I knew it was a weakness.  I didn’t really want to work on it, because I knew I was bad at it.  Being bad at things is hard.  It’s also embarrassing sometimes.

But I wanted to get better.  I wanted to be better.  I knew I needed to address my weaknesses and I was being presented with a prime opportunity to do so.  It would be foolish to pass up an opportunity of this caliber.

“My wrestling,” I said.  “I need to work on my wrestling.”

“Good choice,” he nodded.  “Go get changed and we’ll get to work.”

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart, my portion forever. (Psalms 73:26) 

A funny thing happens when I acknowledge my weakness to my God.  It doesn’t surprise Him.  It doesn’t take Him aback or throw Him off.  He’s been waiting.  He knows I’m weak.  He wants to be my strength.  He’s been waiting for me to ask.

Often, so often, though, He’s going to ask something of me.  It’s something that He knows I’ll find uncomfortable and difficult, but it’s something that He knows is the surest path toward transforming my weakness into strength.  He’s going to ask—recommend—that I share my weakness with others.  He’s going to ask that I allow my brothers and sisters to see behind the façade.  He’s going to ask me to stop playing a part and to start being the person I am—the rawest and realest version of that person. 

Because that’s the miracle, too.  The miracle is the weakness I share with others without shame.  The miracle is the strength that they help me find, and the joy that follows when I realize that I am still loved, despite all my weakness.

I’m a black belt.  I’m supposed to be good at Jiu-jitsu.  But I don’t feel like I’m good at Jiu-jitsu today.  It’s been a tough few rounds.  I’ve been trying some new things—a couple techniques that were supposed to fit the way I fight.  But they don’t fit.  I’m bad at them and it’s been made obvious today.

I’m sitting with the other black belts after the session has ended.  We’re talking about technique and about some of the things we’ve been working on.  We’re talking about our students and about our families.  But I can’t focus.  I’m so annoyed by my failure that I can’t hold my mind in place.

There’s an opening in the conversation, a natural lull that gives me a chance to speak without disrupting the flow.  “I’m struggling,” I finally say, “I can’t quite get this thing right.”  I explain to them what I’m trying to do, and how it keeps missing.  They’re my friends and my peers, and they listen attentively.

“It’s your foot,” one of them finally says.  “You need to get your foot to my belly and not to my hip.  At least, that what it felt like when you were trying this on me.”

“Absolutely,” says my other friend.  “Everything else you’re doing is right, it’s just that small detail.  It’s something new to you, so you’re not good at it yet.  Good on you for being willing to take some risks and trying something different.”

No judgement.  No condemnation.  Just a few black belts helping each other be better at Jiu-jitsu.

Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The urgent request of a righteous person is very powerful in its effect.  (James 5:16)