Coping

In my life I have dealt with conflict, criticism and discouragement in a very similar way. It usually came on the football field and I would think about the criticism, put it into my brain, try really hard to be better at it in the future and then get onto the field and take out all my anger and frustration by pounding (or trying to pound) the man across from me. The awesome thing about being a fullback is that you are essentially a human battering ram and get that opportunity on nearly every play.
Life’s really different now and I still face criticism, discouragement and conflict, yet I have to deal with it in a different way; and I don’t think I like it. Something about me needs a physical release. It’s not like I desire to physically harm the source of these things, but for me football was a healthy way to clear that aggression slate; I would just go out and do my job, hit the other guy in the face and don’t stop until he is on the ground on his back. There aren’t too many opportunities for this when you work at a church, although sometimes I laugh when I think about what that would look like (picture uncoordinated people in robes, stoles and football pads going at it like those tackling drills you see in bad football movies).
So I write. I write to get these things out of my head they can wreak havoc on my sanity, feelings and relationships. I write so that I can slow my thoughts and remove the mental white noise that comes with stress. I write to remember where I have been and to see where I am going. I write because I claim to enjoy it and so I figure I aught to give it a shot every once in a while.
I read other people’s writing and feel a soul-wrenching connection to their situations, grief, joy, wanderlust, and triumphs. I desire to make that happen for myself, but it seams like I’m trying to recall a dream. I never quite get it right and it sort-of feels like I’m talking about someone else. I read Donald Miller and Joan Didion and wonder how someone I have never met can speak to me in a way that strikes the foundations of who I am. I wonder if I can practice enough, and read enough of their works and become inspired and skilled and make my heart come alive off of ink and paper. Maybe someday that will happen, it’s ok if it doesn’t. Because ultimately I write for myself and for God; and while I may never be satisfied with what ends up on the page, the process heals my heart and makes me love God more. And if all else fails, I could always buy a tackling dummy and just go to town, practicing those old days of football, sweat, determination and simplicity, understanding a little more of what it means to grow up.