Reaching for True

Sometimes in writing you begin with the one true thing you want to say, and you spend all your time trying to find the best way to say it. This is called clarity. You have discovered something profound and worthwhile, and you see it so clearly that you can boil it down to a tightly worded sentence or phrase, and that is all you allow yourself to see as you're writing. You check everything within the writing with that sentence as it's guide. Does this help me say my one true thought? Will this illuminate it? Provide a universal example of it? Wax metaphorically, cleverly, shining ever-brighter and more colorful pulsing lights on the various aspects of that truth? Or does it distract? The true thing guides the writing, and you write because you've found this true thing, and you have no choice but to get it down, hoping to either share it or find someone else who's seen it and believes it, all to convince yourself that you either have something to offer in this world or that you are at the very least not alone in it. The truth thing compels you to write, and you have no other choice.

Sermon writing is like that for me. I do not want to get in the way of the singular true idea that must control the message. So I spend hours, days, even weeks, looking for that truth. But when I find it, it controls all 30 minutes of my speaking. I do not say it unless I believe it will get my audience closer to the idea. It is the standard-bearer. I instruct my students to boil down some of their essays into 20 words or less. Or entire novels. There is comfort in knowing exactly what you want to say.

Some conversations with friends are this way. Sometimes you discover a true thing, but it just isn't for a wide audience. It isn't for any audience, really, other than this friend who knows you and your previous thinking and will understand the true thing when you are able to talk about it. So you know ahead of time, when you sit down for a cup of coffee with them, or for dinner, or for a tasty beverage around the fire, or a bike ride, or a run, or a letter, exactly what you want to say. You have your truth, and you want to get it out. You want to try it out. It is no test of friendship to determine if they agree; no, you already know from previous experience with them that you are not alone in this world. It is because you've already agreed on so much that you must get this out to them. So you practice ways to bring it up before you see them. Or you realize it, and you count down the days until they're back in town, or back in the country, available for uninterrupted conversation after the kids have gone to bed. And your piece of truth guides you, guides all you have to say, and you know that more than likely it will still stand, and stand strong, daunting or comforting, the next morning.

It is comforting for a true idea to guide you. It can also be rare.

So many other times, a little like this one, you're just not sure what's true. You haven't found it yet. You just know what's real. And you've got to tease out the true and discover it. Or not discover it, as the case may be. But you notice, you observe, and you see a little glimmer. You've been watching for it, not knowing what it would look like or from where it would come, and you've seen it. You don't know what it means, but you know it is real, and you know that it matters. So you write.

You write. You explore. You examine. You don't know where you are headed, but you know it is better than standing still. The engine is running and the foot is on the gas, even if the compass is broken. And you come to the finish line, paragraphs or pages later, and perhaps you've found the destination. You found the land you didn't know existed even though you'd seen the postcards. You know what you didn't know, know why it matters, and know what is has to do with last week and next week. And you couldn't have gotten there without the writing. And you wouldn't have written without the watching.

I have been spending too much time waiting for the true sentence in order to get me started. The true sentence is my security blanket, my self-assurance that I have something to offer, that I have a little wisdom, that what I'm getting down is worth reading and worth writing. It allows me to do what I know how to do and go where I know I want to go. There is no danger in finding that which I don't want to find. And there is no danger in an audience finding that either.

I'm reading a lesser-known John Steinbeck novel called Sweet Thursday right now. I can feel the joy and freedom in the prose that Steinbeck must have felt writing to please himself in the advanced years of his career. At the beginning of every chapter is a pithy phrase that points to the truth of that chapter. They are witty and instructive. The are fun and true. If you've ever seen the sitcom Frasier (Emily and I are greedily devouring a season that just became free on our Amazon Prime Membership), it also uses this style to introduce it's scenes. These titles, these declarations of content, originally made me jealous. Then I realized: for many of them, Steinbeck had no idea what it would be until he got there.

I do not know exactly what journey I've been on in these 600 or so words. But my engine is running. These words reach for the true.

A Coach's Response to Post-Season Basketball

This weekend marked the end to a basketball season I wasn't sure I would ever have again.

The year ended with a tear-filled locker room, the sting of coming close but not quite close enough draped palpably like a wet blanket over all of us in our final moments together. But of course it did. Looking back, I remember now that this is how it ends every year. I've now coached basketball for 14 years, and each year has ended this way. For all but one team in each class of the state, this is how it must be.

Before the game I offered these words to the team: "No matter what happens tonight, you will remember this. You won't remember every game you've played, but this is a district game. Whatever happens, win or lose, you will remember this game and what you did in it." Looking back over those fourteen years, I say that out of experience. I do remember the district games. For each team.

I remember the ball screen at the top of the key giving us fits in the 4th quarter of one district game that would have likely propelled us into a state tournament. I remember the night a senior took a quick two with little time left when we needed three. Then there was the missed defensive assignment coupled with the missed shots in overtime from another senior in another year. There was the night that was the last ever post-season game for the school, the last one I'd coach in for this district that was merging with another, and I remember none of the school leaders who had been responsible for that decision bothering to be in attendance. And in all of them, sobbing seniors saying goodbye, both boys and girls, the reality of an end they could never truly feel come crashing down.

I've been furtively cursing the outcome under my breath at random times during the past day or two, spouting off stats, or pivotal officiating decisions, or the name of the opposing player who had been averaging 4 points a game and somehow scored 19. Relaxed one minute, engaged in a routine task; the next, I know (or perhaps my wife knows) a tone of exasperated incredulity takes hold.

It is a difficult pill investing that much time, energy, emotion, and not feeling the reward. Each entry into the post-season you fool yourself. It will end badly. Despite knowing that, you don't allow yourself to believe it through all the preparation. You painstakingly stare at stats and film, diagramming every scenario, refusing to get outworked. In the end, though, it will just not be enough.

Post-season basketball only works out well for one team. The rest are left to rot in a sea of regret and what-ifs. But lest I paint too grim a picture, lest I sound like a wounded victim questioning the sanity of it all, I move to this realization: much of life is that way as well. It will not always work out. In fact, often times it won't. If you dare to commit and risk big, you will be let down at some point. That's why it's a risk. That's why many simply don't.

And that's why in basketball, and whatever life pursuits in which you engage, if the end result is the ultimate, and the journey is only the immediate, you are on a futile path.

Of course the end result matters. We wouldn't be there, committed, working, if it didn't. But it can't be it. It can't even be most of it. It's got to be worth it knowing that it very well could end up unsuccessfully. I've gotten a lot of mileage in the classroom out of one of my favorite catch phrases: "Success feels good." I'm now thinking it needs a little modification: "The pursuit of success feels good." If it doesn't, if the chase isn't worth it regardless of the result, then it's probably the wrong success to be chasing.

The day after the game, after a couple of inches of snow covered my driveway, my friend, fellow coach, and occasional snow-blower fairy came over. There was nothing left to say we hadn't said. But we kept talking. It's hard to let go of it. It's hard to quit fighting, quit trying to find a way to eradicate the outcome. And it's hard because the journey was good. The pursuit calls. Eight months away from the next season, we're hungry for the work again.

It will end just as poorly. There will be disappointment. There will be tears. If I am lucky enough to be a part of it, another season, another journey, I will choke back my own emotion as I hug good-bye to tear-stained teenagers who I won't have the opportunity to journey with any more. The buzzer will sound, at some point, and somebody else will be high-fiving; I will watch but try not to, stewing in envy.

And I will remember it. Just like each one before it. But more importantly, I will remember those kids and those coaches and the days we spent together, pursuing a worthy goal, sharing a commitment, and smiling along the way. The end is ugly and hard, but only because the journey itself was colored with joy.

Writing Naked

My senior students have been working on college scholarship essay writing sporadically over the first semester. I decided to start the second semester with a real-world contest of sorts: "Dykstra's Great Scholarship Challenge." Each student worked for a week on their best 400-word scholarship prompt from earlier in the year then turned it in without their name on it. I randomly assigned each essay a number, and those essays were then placed in an NCAA tournament style bracket to essentially face other essays in one-on-one, win-or-go-home competition. I have two sections of seniors, so to maintain anonymity I had the opposite section be the judges for each matchup. The field of 32 has now been whittled down to a Final Four, and those four have been sent on to ten faculty members to decide on an ultimate winner. At stake for this scholarship: pride, my undying love and respect, northeast corner of the 2nd story fame, and perhaps a Snickers bar.

The conversations from students have been tremendous. First, listening to them discuss with each other the qualities of each essay and its worthiness (or lack thereof) to move on in the competition has been of great value. Hearing what impresses them and their classmates as an audience, what rings hollow, and what draws their sharpest criticism should speak to them for the next high-stakes essay they sit down to write.

Additionally, listening to the way students talk about their own papers speaks volumes. Some are much more engaged because they perceive more to be on the line than with other essays for class. Not everyone will be a winner. There is no "good enough." There is only best. It has raised their game. Or it has raised their anxiety because they know it didn't raise their game until too late.

More prominently, though, is the anxiety of realizing that nothing matters other than what's on that sheet of paper. They are being judged solely on their ability to communicate and what they portray about themselves using a measly 400 words. Their name isn't on the paper. They are, in many ways, writing naked. And writing naked, like I suppose many activities performed without clothing, can be quite intimidating. Place yourself in their shoes for a moment.

The frightening thing about writing naked is knowing that this is it. This communication. These words. There is no protection, no cover from your reputation, your previous actions, your money, or even your best intentions. None of it matters. These words do. There will be no making up for them later. There is no averaging it out if your best doesn't get down on that sheet of paper. Your mother or grandpa or best friend cannot convince the committee later of what they have convinced you of so many times - that you're a good person, a talented person, a person worthy of recognition. If those people were reading this - your friends and family - they would immediately assume the best and see the best and understand what you might be saying. But they aren't there. Nor is their recommendation. All that's there is a blank slate, a brief interaction, and an audience who will walk away with a clear and firm and confident judgment of who and what you are.

You will want to use previous words. You will want to go to your file and find something that was perfect before, something where each sentence inspired, where every metaphor illuminated, where you know you were at your best and you were well-rested and enjoying life and feeling really really good while the characters flashed effortlessly before you on the screen. But it will not. Not this time. It just won't fit. For this is a new time, a new prompt, a new audience, and in many ways, a newer and slightly wiser you.

My students want their resume to be attached. They've lived for that resume. They've worked hard for it. They've put in hours - hours of activities, hours of studying, hours of volunteering. And perhaps that should count for something. But here's the difference: in the writing, the pressure is on now. Today. The actions matter, and everyone knows it. It's harder. No one has organized this essay for them. They have to do more than just show up. They have to do more than do what they've always done: participate and even work hard when it's been requested of them or when it's regarding something that draws great passion from them. Instead they have an imperfect prompt, an audience they can't control, and a medium that intimidates them. In the writing they can display who they are and what they can do under pressure, under circumstances they didn't choose, in a situation they couldn't necessarily prepare for.

So they've got to use their words to be memorable. To grab attention. Now. They've got to say something that matters and approach with great purpose and attention every syllable they attach to this, the representation of their character. They will not get this opportunity, with this audience, again. And in this desire to be noteworthy, they know they must compete against a whole host of other essay clamoring in each clause for the same attention.

Perhaps we all would do better to write naked more often. To write naked at the grocery store when checking out. To write naked at the restaurant for those serving. Or with the co-worker we just met. Or the co-worker we've known for a long time and can't stand. Or with our spouse. Writing with this care, with this focus, with this pressure on each and every word. Every day, an essay due; every day, a blank slate with no past resume and no recommendations to lean on; every day's word count doing all the speaking for our character, for our values, for our worldview.

Whether we feel that pressure or not, an audience will read our essay every day. They will get our words, and nothing else. And what we represent, whether that be ourselves, our family, or our God, will be spoken for right along with it.