At the beginning of 2013, over a couple of cups of coffee and good conversation with a friend, I set down 3 measurable goals to match my priorities. The end of the year is here, and I've made it. I put two more letters in the mail today, I finished Steinbeck's Winter of Our Discontent on Monday night, and this is my last blog post. It came down to the wire, but I finished it: 75 blog posts, 25 letters, and 25 books in one year. Here's what I learned along the way:
1. Personal pressure beats peer pressure.
I got this done for no other reason than I said I would get it done. It had nothing to do with anyone else's expectations of me. Frankly, I don't think any of us will ever live up to the expectations from others, and we know that. That's why we largely ignore them. Oh, we'll try to keep others happy, but only to a point. Ourselves, however? That's a tougher master. Too often I believe we don't require enough of ourselves; we keep our own expectations vague, if not low.
I use the term personal pressure here because I did feel the pressure. At times I was downright stressed trying to squeeze in time to follow through on this commitment, especially during the stretch run when I battled illness, fatigue, and some unexpected additions to the schedule. And that stress is good. To reach closer to who we want to be requires us to go beyond the comfortable. Some people spend their whole lives only allowing others to dictate when they step beyond the easy. Making the decision to create personal pressure allows you to guide the ship. The waters will be choppy, but you'll know exactly why you're treading them.
2. Deadlines force me to do what I want to have done but don't want to do.
A major lesson from my 2012 reading was the paradox that is our desires. That which we most want, we often least feel like doing. Exercise, reading, writing, serving - these are often high on many priority lists, but follow through is low. I realized that if I wait until I feel like it to do all that I say I want to do, none of it would ever get done. Also, it's usually when I least feel like doing something (praying, apologizing, communicating, serving my wife) that I most need to do it.
The process this year of the monthly deadline helped me to keep that dichotomy in check. Knowing that I needed 2 books, 6-7 blog posts, and 2 letters by the end of each month created built-in demands that I act regularly on that which I said is important. Most months I came to the last week and realized that I still had 2 letters to write. I rarely felt like writing them, but I was always thrilled when I put them in the mail. Despite the fact that the whole letter writing thing was what I most wanted to do, it was the hardest on which to follow through. Regular deadlines increased the urgency, forcing me to take action whether I felt like it or not.
3. You get what you emphasize.
This is an old coaching maxim, and it held true in this venture as well. I emphasized 3 goals, wrote about those 3 goals on this blog, and told people about them. I committed to following through, and I did. However, everything that wasn't part of those 3 goals became less of a priority, cast aside to the realm of "when I get a chance." My Time magazine frequency suffered. I read manageable books, not huge anthologies that wouldn't count towards my goals. More importantly, the routine of written prayer and Bible reading was anything but routine.
All three of my goals were worthy of my focus, and I'm glad I chose what I did. They all three held true to what I said I wanted - writing and relationships. If you emphasize nothing, you get nothing. And you can't emphasize everything. However, 2013 is now over, and I will move to something different. It's time for a different emphasis.
4. Numbers matter.
The best part about these goals is that they were measurable and controlled entirely by me. I've made the mistake in the past of creating the goal of being a better friend, or father, or husband, or writer, or teacher. There's no way to measure that. I could have gone a different way as well - for instance, require publishing a book or an article, or building 5 new relationships. But those aren't controllable. Sure, if factors are right, they can happen; however, they are neither certainties nor actual determinations of improvement. By putting a number of what I would do, and making sure that number was directly related to improvement on my stated priorities, I set myself up for success. There is no doubt I am a better writer after posting 75 times this year and reading 25 books. I know I've valued relationships through those letters and connections made on this blog. I can't count the improvement, but I could count my actions. The controllable numbers drove the journey.
So there it is. Done. With 3 hours to spare until the end of the year. I think I'll take the time I've got left and curl up with my wife under a blanket on the couch and watch a movie. It wasn't on my goals list, but perhaps it should have been. I want to thank all of you who have read the blog this year. It continues to be a major influence in my life, and I appreciate the opportunity to be read in yours. Here's to a productive, purposeful, and humble 2014.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
Laser Sharp, Loud and Proud
The week before Christmas and New Years is an an annual time of personal reflection. It's a great time to look back and look forward. Some advice I read this year about writing from the book Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark is helpful in this process
In looking back, I look to the blog. I write to reflect and to think. I also write to remember. This blog is a journal of sorts that reminds me of my journey this year, of what I thought and studied and learned. And I want to remember all that I learned this year. I want it all to mean something, and I want to take it all with me in my next post, my next practice, my next meeting with friends, my next month with my family, my next workout. But I can't take it all with me. Part of life is knowing what to keep.
Clark writes about the challenge for writers of sorting all that they've gathered and narrowing their focus: "New writers often dump their research into a story or essay. 'By God, I gathered all that stuff,' they think, 'so it's going in.' Veterans use a fraction, sometimes half, sometimes one-tenth of what they've gathered. But how do you decide what to include and, more difficult, what to leave out? A sharp focus is like a laser."
All of what I've written and thought about is important into getting me to where I'm at today, but there's no way I can prioritize all 50-60 thoughts and "lessons" that constitute my 2013 writings. If you attempt to be good at everything, you'll be good at nothing. Instead, I've got to look back at common themes, at both the major events that really mattered and the minor thoughts that consistently, from some unconscious corner of my brain, nudged my thinking. Ideas like the reason sports are worthwhile, the approach I have to maintain in coaching, and the approach I have to take amid the uncertainty of not coaching. Or the realization that appears over and over again in blog entries - that I'm not just living my story, I'm in hundreds of stories going on around me that I get to be a part of, and one big story that is already determined. Or what I've learned from sticking with goals for a solid year (see tomorrow's post for more on that). In looking back, we can keep all our memories; but we can't keep them for long. Use the laser and take with you what you can, what you must, to grow into who you need to be tomorrow.
In looking ahead, I'm influenced by Clark's advice of "saving string." We often feel too busy to do the big projects we'd love to tackle, but Clark writes that we do not have to drop all of our responsibilities in order to chase what we'd really like to do: "Right now, buried in routine, you feel you lack the time and energy to undertake enterprising work. . . As you perform your routine work, talk about your special interest. Gather opinions and anecdotes from across the landscape. Scribble them down, one by one, fragment by fragment, until one day you look up and see a monument of persistence, ready to be mounted in the town square."
Whoever or whatever it is you want to be but can't be right now, what you can do is talk about it. Talk about what's important to you, what you want to do, or what you're interested in. Gather conversations, ideas, and thoughts on it. Infuse what you want to be into your identity; eventually other people and you yourself will see you in that light. In the same way that some people's identity is as a Hawkeye guy, or a Ford guy, or their thing is quilting, or gardening, or biking, and therefore that's what people ask them about, make whatever it is you want to do or be your "thing." Read a little, talk a little, write a little, and all of a sudden you've gathered enough string to start something. You become what you started just talking about.
Whether you want the future to hold you as a runner, a reader, a biblical scholar, a bowler, a devoted spouse, or a comic book aficionado, announce your intentions. Boldly speak where no you has spoken before.
Join me if you choose in looking behind and looking ahead this week. Use a laser, then shout out loud.
In looking back, I look to the blog. I write to reflect and to think. I also write to remember. This blog is a journal of sorts that reminds me of my journey this year, of what I thought and studied and learned. And I want to remember all that I learned this year. I want it all to mean something, and I want to take it all with me in my next post, my next practice, my next meeting with friends, my next month with my family, my next workout. But I can't take it all with me. Part of life is knowing what to keep.
Clark writes about the challenge for writers of sorting all that they've gathered and narrowing their focus: "New writers often dump their research into a story or essay. 'By God, I gathered all that stuff,' they think, 'so it's going in.' Veterans use a fraction, sometimes half, sometimes one-tenth of what they've gathered. But how do you decide what to include and, more difficult, what to leave out? A sharp focus is like a laser."
All of what I've written and thought about is important into getting me to where I'm at today, but there's no way I can prioritize all 50-60 thoughts and "lessons" that constitute my 2013 writings. If you attempt to be good at everything, you'll be good at nothing. Instead, I've got to look back at common themes, at both the major events that really mattered and the minor thoughts that consistently, from some unconscious corner of my brain, nudged my thinking. Ideas like the reason sports are worthwhile, the approach I have to maintain in coaching, and the approach I have to take amid the uncertainty of not coaching. Or the realization that appears over and over again in blog entries - that I'm not just living my story, I'm in hundreds of stories going on around me that I get to be a part of, and one big story that is already determined. Or what I've learned from sticking with goals for a solid year (see tomorrow's post for more on that). In looking back, we can keep all our memories; but we can't keep them for long. Use the laser and take with you what you can, what you must, to grow into who you need to be tomorrow.
In looking ahead, I'm influenced by Clark's advice of "saving string." We often feel too busy to do the big projects we'd love to tackle, but Clark writes that we do not have to drop all of our responsibilities in order to chase what we'd really like to do: "Right now, buried in routine, you feel you lack the time and energy to undertake enterprising work. . . As you perform your routine work, talk about your special interest. Gather opinions and anecdotes from across the landscape. Scribble them down, one by one, fragment by fragment, until one day you look up and see a monument of persistence, ready to be mounted in the town square."
Whoever or whatever it is you want to be but can't be right now, what you can do is talk about it. Talk about what's important to you, what you want to do, or what you're interested in. Gather conversations, ideas, and thoughts on it. Infuse what you want to be into your identity; eventually other people and you yourself will see you in that light. In the same way that some people's identity is as a Hawkeye guy, or a Ford guy, or their thing is quilting, or gardening, or biking, and therefore that's what people ask them about, make whatever it is you want to do or be your "thing." Read a little, talk a little, write a little, and all of a sudden you've gathered enough string to start something. You become what you started just talking about.
Whether you want the future to hold you as a runner, a reader, a biblical scholar, a bowler, a devoted spouse, or a comic book aficionado, announce your intentions. Boldly speak where no you has spoken before.
Join me if you choose in looking behind and looking ahead this week. Use a laser, then shout out loud.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Comfort and Joy
God rest ye, merry gentlemen.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen, the gifts are put away. The shopping, the wrapping, the quick-calculating - "I spent this on her, now this gift plus this gift is this much, but if get this for his stocking. . ." - all can cease for another year. The presents, perfect and flawed, are opened, and proper thanks have been delivered. The pressure of surprise, of risk, of heart-felt offerings is released in once giant, collective post-Christmas sigh.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen, the feasting has subsided. The meals, immaculately prepared, carefully planned, dutifully designed, have been served. The family has been fed, several times. We have all eaten, and eaten well, heavy from another bite, another handful, another slice, another piece. Heavy from the guilty pleasure of day after day of exercise-free dining. Breathe deeply; the next meal can be popcorn, or cereal, or frozen pizza, or even leftovers, eaten on every day dishes on couches with no candlelight or festive napkins.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen, the events have dwindled down. The parties, the meetings, the concerts, the dinner parties, they disappear from the calendar. The have been given due attention, provided ample joy and laughter and catching up. There are now fewer places to be and no hurry to get there. There are jobs to be done, but not with the pre-holiday demands, not the same deadline urgency. Whatever your schedule speaks, it gently and soothingly reminds rather than declares and announces.
For a bit, rest. The demands on your time, your attention, your money, and your love have been met. New stress will arrive, but not yet. Not until a deep breath. A days long one.
Perhaps most importantly, though, God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day. Rest deeply in that. The battle has been won. Whatever new stress comes up, whatever new demands arise, whatever new pain and joy and laughter and relationships and work requires your energies, you can still rest well in the confidence of eternity conquered. The Grand Plan has saved you from all temporary fatigue in favor of everlasting comfort and joy.
"Fear not," then said the Angel. "Let nothing you affright. This day is born a Savior." Fear not. Rest. All is well. Endure and enjoy, in comfort and joy.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen, the gifts are put away. The shopping, the wrapping, the quick-calculating - "I spent this on her, now this gift plus this gift is this much, but if get this for his stocking. . ." - all can cease for another year. The presents, perfect and flawed, are opened, and proper thanks have been delivered. The pressure of surprise, of risk, of heart-felt offerings is released in once giant, collective post-Christmas sigh.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen, the feasting has subsided. The meals, immaculately prepared, carefully planned, dutifully designed, have been served. The family has been fed, several times. We have all eaten, and eaten well, heavy from another bite, another handful, another slice, another piece. Heavy from the guilty pleasure of day after day of exercise-free dining. Breathe deeply; the next meal can be popcorn, or cereal, or frozen pizza, or even leftovers, eaten on every day dishes on couches with no candlelight or festive napkins.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen, the events have dwindled down. The parties, the meetings, the concerts, the dinner parties, they disappear from the calendar. The have been given due attention, provided ample joy and laughter and catching up. There are now fewer places to be and no hurry to get there. There are jobs to be done, but not with the pre-holiday demands, not the same deadline urgency. Whatever your schedule speaks, it gently and soothingly reminds rather than declares and announces.
For a bit, rest. The demands on your time, your attention, your money, and your love have been met. New stress will arrive, but not yet. Not until a deep breath. A days long one.
Perhaps most importantly, though, God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day. Rest deeply in that. The battle has been won. Whatever new stress comes up, whatever new demands arise, whatever new pain and joy and laughter and relationships and work requires your energies, you can still rest well in the confidence of eternity conquered. The Grand Plan has saved you from all temporary fatigue in favor of everlasting comfort and joy.
"Fear not," then said the Angel. "Let nothing you affright. This day is born a Savior." Fear not. Rest. All is well. Endure and enjoy, in comfort and joy.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
A 50% Chance of Fog This Week
Fighting the fog of frustration, I fall, exhausted.
The fog rolls in slowly, unexpectedly. I never see it coming, though I know when the conditions are right. The schedule builds, the rest time fades, and the margin for the unexpected is minuscule. Bouncing from demand to demand, falling further and further behind on both responsibilities and desires, the stage is set for the onset of the fog. I wander into it, barely noticing. A conflict arises. I handle it and move on to the next goal. But I do so perturbed. The fog thickens. I rush into the next demand, usually something I'm not all that excited about. It doesn't go smoothly either, and now my frustration is visible. Stressed, I head to what's next, now so accustomed to the fog that I forget that it's even there. It becomes a constant state of mind, a companion, hovering just enough to cloud reality. I hate the fog.
Conditions are ripe for me in December to experience this fog of frustration. When I'm not careful, I allow increased demands to fall like dominoes into one another, knocking one experience into another. Tired and under the gun, I let classroom frustration carry over into basketball practice. Or basketball frustration to carry over into parenting. Or parenting frustration to carry over into my Bible class, or cleaning, or Christmas preparation. Sooner or later I'm yelling at the dog because a domino fell 3 days before and I never bothered to stop the collateral damage. The fog penetrates all areas, and eventually I'm going to bed frustrated so that I can wake up frustrated so that I can get frustrated because my kids can't put their shoes on in under 5 minutes when it's time to go and it's snowed another inch after I just got done shoveling the night before at 10 pm in the bitter cold.
The fog clouds reality, making the good difficult to see and drawing attention from it as soon as possible. It makes me prone to accidents, to recklessness, to speeding cluelessly past opportunities. The fog is a hazard.
I write this not because I'm in the midst of it right now, but because I recognize that now is an easy time to fall victim to it. My guess is this time of year might be that way for you as well. There's more to do, and more people to do it with. Personal expectations of perfection rise, demands on your time and generosity increase, and stereotypical (and fictitious) holiday nostalgia skyrockets the requirements in our head of what it takes to make this time just right. Rush to buy, rush to wrap, rush to pack, and rush to travel. Smile for all. Decorate and bake. Allow no room for mistakes, mishaps, or inconveniences.
I wish you no frustration, and I wish that the frustration that does arise passes without clouding your next minute, the next hour, or the next week. But what if it does?
I'm not sure that I've discovered a way to get myself out of it. I try to slow down, to take a deep breath, to remember what's important. Then I get frustrated that I stopped to take a deep breath. What has actually worked best in leading me out of the fog, in my experience, are actions outside of my control. Like when my friend from down the hall reminds me I'm a good teacher. Or when another friend tells me a joke. Someone asks how my day is and means it, speaking to me in a way that doesn't make me feel like a commodity. A player gives me a hard time. An old student visits. My wife hugs me for no reason. My daughter sings "Joy to the World."
I have no advice for getting yourself out of the fog. But I do think it's rather simple to get someone else out without ever knowing that they're in it. In the next couple of days, then, when all around are facing the threat of fog, be that friend, or that sibling, or that stranger. Offer someone a break from frustration, a glimpse of reality, a dose of joy. Perhaps, by helping others navigate their way out, we stand to protect ourselves from a similar fate as well.
The fog rolls in slowly, unexpectedly. I never see it coming, though I know when the conditions are right. The schedule builds, the rest time fades, and the margin for the unexpected is minuscule. Bouncing from demand to demand, falling further and further behind on both responsibilities and desires, the stage is set for the onset of the fog. I wander into it, barely noticing. A conflict arises. I handle it and move on to the next goal. But I do so perturbed. The fog thickens. I rush into the next demand, usually something I'm not all that excited about. It doesn't go smoothly either, and now my frustration is visible. Stressed, I head to what's next, now so accustomed to the fog that I forget that it's even there. It becomes a constant state of mind, a companion, hovering just enough to cloud reality. I hate the fog.
Conditions are ripe for me in December to experience this fog of frustration. When I'm not careful, I allow increased demands to fall like dominoes into one another, knocking one experience into another. Tired and under the gun, I let classroom frustration carry over into basketball practice. Or basketball frustration to carry over into parenting. Or parenting frustration to carry over into my Bible class, or cleaning, or Christmas preparation. Sooner or later I'm yelling at the dog because a domino fell 3 days before and I never bothered to stop the collateral damage. The fog penetrates all areas, and eventually I'm going to bed frustrated so that I can wake up frustrated so that I can get frustrated because my kids can't put their shoes on in under 5 minutes when it's time to go and it's snowed another inch after I just got done shoveling the night before at 10 pm in the bitter cold.
The fog clouds reality, making the good difficult to see and drawing attention from it as soon as possible. It makes me prone to accidents, to recklessness, to speeding cluelessly past opportunities. The fog is a hazard.
I write this not because I'm in the midst of it right now, but because I recognize that now is an easy time to fall victim to it. My guess is this time of year might be that way for you as well. There's more to do, and more people to do it with. Personal expectations of perfection rise, demands on your time and generosity increase, and stereotypical (and fictitious) holiday nostalgia skyrockets the requirements in our head of what it takes to make this time just right. Rush to buy, rush to wrap, rush to pack, and rush to travel. Smile for all. Decorate and bake. Allow no room for mistakes, mishaps, or inconveniences.
I wish you no frustration, and I wish that the frustration that does arise passes without clouding your next minute, the next hour, or the next week. But what if it does?
I'm not sure that I've discovered a way to get myself out of it. I try to slow down, to take a deep breath, to remember what's important. Then I get frustrated that I stopped to take a deep breath. What has actually worked best in leading me out of the fog, in my experience, are actions outside of my control. Like when my friend from down the hall reminds me I'm a good teacher. Or when another friend tells me a joke. Someone asks how my day is and means it, speaking to me in a way that doesn't make me feel like a commodity. A player gives me a hard time. An old student visits. My wife hugs me for no reason. My daughter sings "Joy to the World."
I have no advice for getting yourself out of the fog. But I do think it's rather simple to get someone else out without ever knowing that they're in it. In the next couple of days, then, when all around are facing the threat of fog, be that friend, or that sibling, or that stranger. Offer someone a break from frustration, a glimpse of reality, a dose of joy. Perhaps, by helping others navigate their way out, we stand to protect ourselves from a similar fate as well.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
The Passionate, Logical Truth
My grandfather was a good man.
The stats don't lie. He was married to his wife for 57 years. He worked for 20 years at Maytag and at the Farmers CoOp, and he labored the land and livestock all his life. He raised four kids, had ten adoring grandchildren, and accumulated a sparkling collection of hundreds of toy tractors.
The numbers can't tell the whole story, though. His laugh was infectious, especially when he was instigating some not so subtle teasing. His smile when he greeted you made you feel like you mattered. To listen to him swear at machinery or farm animals was fantastic, especially for a grandson. I could try to write it all down; but I'm not sure I could ever get it just right, the way I feel when I remember the million steps I took beside him across that farm now 15, 20, 25 years ago.
To get it right, to get to the truth of it, the whole man in all his goodness, you need logic and emotion. Just one won't do. I came to this realization recently as I was studying one of Paul's New Testament letters as part of my Biblical exposition class. In Colossians, Paul is addressing a body of relatively new believers with the goal of reminding them not to be distracted and deceived from the reason for their belief and the source of truth and hope in their lives: Christ. As I broke down the structure of the letter, I noticed exactly the type of "proof" I've offered above - a logical argument and an emotional appeal.
Paul begins by reminding them of all that's true about Jesus. He is the image of God, the Creator of all, preeminent and proclaimed in all creation. He is the firstborn from the dead, the hope of the gospel, and the reason for all of creation and their hope. In the course of a couple of sentences, Paul lays out all the practical, logical reasons for faith in Christ and not elsewhere.
Then he takes a masterful turn. Knowing what many forget, that head knowledge is not enough, Paul goes to the heart. He reminds them that they have an individual story, and that story has seen great change because of Christ. Paul takes their own personal, powerful faith experience and asks them where that came from. He makes them feel, creating an emotional investment that builds on his argument.
What Paul gets is that we need both to hold on to the truth.
Logic isn't enough. I can't count the number of times I've known something makes sense but not gone with the facts. Numbers and statistics are practical, but they don't always move us. You can know your spouse loves you, or know that you have a good job, or know how many calories are in that perfectly frosted Christmas cookie. That doesn't mean that you're feeling that right this moment.
In the same fashion, emotion will not carry the truth either. I fear too many people rely solely on their feelings to guide them and their actions; my experience tells me my gut makes some pretty awful choices. Emotions are fickle; to be guided and convinced only by how one feels is to be reliant on a constant pep-rally to maintain devotion to projects, goals, people, and God. Feelings are great, but feelings will not remain constant. In anything. That which I most want to do or know is best for my life is often that which is most difficult to act out.
I caution you, then, just as Paul did, to examine your loyalties. Feed them through both logic and emotion. One will never be enough. With both, however, your knowledge, your priorities, and your actions become rock solid, an immovable force unswayed by deception and distraction. You become constant.
And constant in my priorities is exactly what I want to be.
.
The stats don't lie. He was married to his wife for 57 years. He worked for 20 years at Maytag and at the Farmers CoOp, and he labored the land and livestock all his life. He raised four kids, had ten adoring grandchildren, and accumulated a sparkling collection of hundreds of toy tractors.
The numbers can't tell the whole story, though. His laugh was infectious, especially when he was instigating some not so subtle teasing. His smile when he greeted you made you feel like you mattered. To listen to him swear at machinery or farm animals was fantastic, especially for a grandson. I could try to write it all down; but I'm not sure I could ever get it just right, the way I feel when I remember the million steps I took beside him across that farm now 15, 20, 25 years ago.
To get it right, to get to the truth of it, the whole man in all his goodness, you need logic and emotion. Just one won't do. I came to this realization recently as I was studying one of Paul's New Testament letters as part of my Biblical exposition class. In Colossians, Paul is addressing a body of relatively new believers with the goal of reminding them not to be distracted and deceived from the reason for their belief and the source of truth and hope in their lives: Christ. As I broke down the structure of the letter, I noticed exactly the type of "proof" I've offered above - a logical argument and an emotional appeal.
Paul begins by reminding them of all that's true about Jesus. He is the image of God, the Creator of all, preeminent and proclaimed in all creation. He is the firstborn from the dead, the hope of the gospel, and the reason for all of creation and their hope. In the course of a couple of sentences, Paul lays out all the practical, logical reasons for faith in Christ and not elsewhere.
Then he takes a masterful turn. Knowing what many forget, that head knowledge is not enough, Paul goes to the heart. He reminds them that they have an individual story, and that story has seen great change because of Christ. Paul takes their own personal, powerful faith experience and asks them where that came from. He makes them feel, creating an emotional investment that builds on his argument.
What Paul gets is that we need both to hold on to the truth.
Logic isn't enough. I can't count the number of times I've known something makes sense but not gone with the facts. Numbers and statistics are practical, but they don't always move us. You can know your spouse loves you, or know that you have a good job, or know how many calories are in that perfectly frosted Christmas cookie. That doesn't mean that you're feeling that right this moment.
In the same fashion, emotion will not carry the truth either. I fear too many people rely solely on their feelings to guide them and their actions; my experience tells me my gut makes some pretty awful choices. Emotions are fickle; to be guided and convinced only by how one feels is to be reliant on a constant pep-rally to maintain devotion to projects, goals, people, and God. Feelings are great, but feelings will not remain constant. In anything. That which I most want to do or know is best for my life is often that which is most difficult to act out.
I caution you, then, just as Paul did, to examine your loyalties. Feed them through both logic and emotion. One will never be enough. With both, however, your knowledge, your priorities, and your actions become rock solid, an immovable force unswayed by deception and distraction. You become constant.
And constant in my priorities is exactly what I want to be.
.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
For Such a Time as This
Last Saturday night I got the opportunity to attend the wedding of a former player of mine from my first team at Nora Springs. It was a rewarding evening. First of all, any opportunity to attend an event at The Surf in Clear Lake is a good one. Secondly, many good friends were in attendance. Most of all, though, I got to see my boys.
Every group I've coached has it's own distinct personality and place in my memory; this group in particular is a special collection. All six of the top upperclassmen from that team were in attendance, and I found myself in conversations with them, now as old as I was when I first started coaching them. One by one I heard their success stories, their plans, their laughter, and their memories from a basketball season nine years ago in an orange and black gym in a little town in northern Iowa. Others from their graduating class, my first group of seniors at Nora Springs, were in attendance as well. Last Saturday was an evening full of seeing young adults whose youths I got to be a part of. I had much to smile about.
I don't know what specific impact I made in those guys' lives. I hope it was significant, but I also know better. I believe each one of them would be just as successful today whether they had learned rebounding and pack-line defense and good shot selection from me or not. But the fact remains that they did learn those things from me, and I did spend time with them, because I said yes to coming to Nora Springs. I came here and went to work and did the best I could; and in the process, I got to be a part of the lives of some really good people.
I thought about this as I sat in adult Sunday School the next morning, discussing "following God's will for our lives." I used to put so much pressure on myself to figure out exactly what God needed me to do and where He needed me to go in the world, as if were I to neglect whatever the task may be, all of God's plans would be thwarted. Of course, it was all hogwash. Despite the burden that I felt, God would accomplish his goals whether I decided to obey or not. He was just asking me to come along for the ride.
I really liked what David Platt, the author of the book we've been studying had to say about this: "God's ultimate concern isn't to get you or me from point A to point B in the quickest, easiest, smoothest, clearest route possible. Rather, His ultimate concern is that you and I would know Him more deeply as we trust Him more completely."
In the Old Testament book of Esther, Esther has been made queen in a time of persecution of the Jews. Her uncle, Mordecai, gives her a somewhat famous line about her position, telling her that she has been placed in this position by God "for such a time as this." When that passage is mentioned, however, I think the most significant piece is left out. Here is Esther 4:12, in its entirety: "For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father's house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?" Essentially, whether she has been called to such a time as this or not, God's will shall be done. The Jews will be delivered. This is her chance, therefore, not to come through for God, but to share in what God is doing. The design of the Great Designer will not be thwarted; Esther, as well as us, can either join in and gain joy or watch passively from the sidelines. God doesn't need us; he wants us.
Those boys didn't need me nine years ago. My current players and students don't need me now. Your co-workers, your neighbors, and everyone else in your circle of influence probably would make it without you too. And so will God. But you have an opportunity. You can join in the joy and be what you have the opportunity to be in such a time as this. You can do what you do, where you are, with passion, joy, sacrifice, and gratitude. Then someday, about nine years down the road, you'll smile a lot about what you were allowed to do.
Every group I've coached has it's own distinct personality and place in my memory; this group in particular is a special collection. All six of the top upperclassmen from that team were in attendance, and I found myself in conversations with them, now as old as I was when I first started coaching them. One by one I heard their success stories, their plans, their laughter, and their memories from a basketball season nine years ago in an orange and black gym in a little town in northern Iowa. Others from their graduating class, my first group of seniors at Nora Springs, were in attendance as well. Last Saturday was an evening full of seeing young adults whose youths I got to be a part of. I had much to smile about.
I don't know what specific impact I made in those guys' lives. I hope it was significant, but I also know better. I believe each one of them would be just as successful today whether they had learned rebounding and pack-line defense and good shot selection from me or not. But the fact remains that they did learn those things from me, and I did spend time with them, because I said yes to coming to Nora Springs. I came here and went to work and did the best I could; and in the process, I got to be a part of the lives of some really good people.
I thought about this as I sat in adult Sunday School the next morning, discussing "following God's will for our lives." I used to put so much pressure on myself to figure out exactly what God needed me to do and where He needed me to go in the world, as if were I to neglect whatever the task may be, all of God's plans would be thwarted. Of course, it was all hogwash. Despite the burden that I felt, God would accomplish his goals whether I decided to obey or not. He was just asking me to come along for the ride.
I really liked what David Platt, the author of the book we've been studying had to say about this: "God's ultimate concern isn't to get you or me from point A to point B in the quickest, easiest, smoothest, clearest route possible. Rather, His ultimate concern is that you and I would know Him more deeply as we trust Him more completely."
In the Old Testament book of Esther, Esther has been made queen in a time of persecution of the Jews. Her uncle, Mordecai, gives her a somewhat famous line about her position, telling her that she has been placed in this position by God "for such a time as this." When that passage is mentioned, however, I think the most significant piece is left out. Here is Esther 4:12, in its entirety: "For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father's house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?" Essentially, whether she has been called to such a time as this or not, God's will shall be done. The Jews will be delivered. This is her chance, therefore, not to come through for God, but to share in what God is doing. The design of the Great Designer will not be thwarted; Esther, as well as us, can either join in and gain joy or watch passively from the sidelines. God doesn't need us; he wants us.
Those boys didn't need me nine years ago. My current players and students don't need me now. Your co-workers, your neighbors, and everyone else in your circle of influence probably would make it without you too. And so will God. But you have an opportunity. You can join in the joy and be what you have the opportunity to be in such a time as this. You can do what you do, where you are, with passion, joy, sacrifice, and gratitude. Then someday, about nine years down the road, you'll smile a lot about what you were allowed to do.
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