Fumbling into spirituality

When I was first getting clean and sober over twenty seven years ago, I was told that I had an illness for which the only known treatment was a spiritual experience, a complete personality transformation through the development of a conscious contact with a higher power. Up until this point, I’m not sure I’d ever even heard the word spiritual before, let alone understood what it meant to have a spiritual experience. I did have some concept of God from going to church as a kid and I knew about religion in a general sense, but spirituality was entirely new territory for me. 

This newness may be one of the reasons I was attracted to, or at least not opposed to, this idea that felt revolutionary to me. At that point in my life, religion scared me and I had rejected the idea of God as a teenager, but I was willing, mostly through pain and desperation, to take a shot at this thing called spirituality. And I feel very fortunate that the person helping me at the time, my spiritual director, so to speak, never pushed his own beliefs on me. Rather, he introduced me to a variety of spiritual and religious ideas, books, and teachings, and encouraged me to find my own way. 

In the beginning, however, this all confused me, as I thought I had to construct a higher power for myself from all of the different source material I was studying. I tried to take a little bit from here and a little bit from there, keeping what I liked and ignoring or discarding what I didn’t. It was as if I was working on my own Create-A-God kit with the hope of coming up with a higher power I could trust and rely on. It wasn’t until much later when I realized that, if God is anything, he isn’t what I want or imagine him to be. He is what and who he is, beyond my limitations, expectations, and understanding. 

All of this to say, my first steps onto the spiritual path were clumsy to say the least. I was like a man fumbling around in the dark for a light-switch, bumping into furniture, tripping on the carpet, and knocking over lamps along the way. But the beautiful thing about the spiritual path, especially in the beginning, is that it is broad and forgiving, leaving room for mistakes, misunderstandings, and missteps, and I made many. 

In hindsight, I see that God’s grace allowed me this time of discovery. My curiosity and sincerity have always been rewarded by him with the love and understanding of a patient father, even if sometimes I tested the limits of this patience and he let me know it. But God is forgiving – it’s a good thing too because I have done and continue to do plenty for which I have needed forgiveness – and the longer I walk this path, the more I can feel the truth of this. All he asks is that, whether we call it spirituality, religion, or something more specific, we step forward in faith. If we do this, he will always be there to help us up when we fall. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Pray without ceasing

There is so much temptation to argue with the world over worldly things and I often give in to that temptation, but every time I do, it leaves me feeling empty and disappointed. Specifically when I engage in online debate, whatever dubious, fleeting pleasure I get out of trying to be right is quickly replaced by hollow dissatisfaction. Even if I perceive myself as having won whatever debate I interjected myself into, the cost is almost always greater than the reward. 

What is there to even win? What will I gain compared to my lost time, attention, and happiness? The answer is little to nothing. In fact, it’s not even a net zero. I inevitably end up feeling worse than when I started after having wasted precious minutes and hours focused on something other than what is actually good, healthy, and fulfilling. 

In spite of this, I still find myself battling the temptation to get involved in things that don’t really concern me. It’s not even that I am drawn in by some righteous or noble cause, and I’m not trying to create some great change through debate. It’s my pride and vanity driving me to engage in this pointless conflict for the sake of conflict. The truth is most people are not arguing online to have their minds changed anyway. Rather, I’m simply trying to seem smart or to prove others wrong. This is not the path to heaven or even contentment. It’s quite the opposite, in fact. 

Case in point, after the recent election, I found myself engaging with some posts on my social media feed. I then shared an old friends post which expressed a controversial political opinion. Adding to this, I created a post stating a dissenting view on my own post, hoping for validation, but expecting negative attention.

As time passed, I started getting comments on my posts. I engaged with some of them. Others I ignored. But what I started to notice was that, even when I was not on social media, I was thinking about what comments others were making on my posts. What did the think about me? What were they saying about me? Who else agreed with them? Was I upsetting people? How was this affecting my public image? All of this self-centered fear drove me to check my social media feed on my phone over and over again for hours. 

The more I checked my phone, the worse I felt. This was not because people were criticizing me and my point of view. I expected that and I could have predicted exactly who would do so, as well as what they would say. I felt worse over time because I began realizing just how fruitless this activity was. More so, it was becoming clear to me that, aside from this not adding value to my life, it was actually detracting from my joy, my peace of mind, and my ability to focus the things that truly matter. 

Most importantly, however, I realized that all of this time spent worrying about what other people were thinking or saying was time I was not thinking about God. That is, instead of engaging people in political debate on social media, I could have been praying. I don’t mean on my knees prayer, which I do at the beginning and end of the day, but “praying without ceasing (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)” through meditation, contemplation, spiritual reading, Christian podcasts, or service work. By obsessing over worldly matters, I was ignoring my higher calling. I was ignoring God. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Don’t touch the stove

A manager of mine once told me that managing people is a lot like raising children. At the time, I didn’t have any children, but he was a good, sincere man and a very important mentor for me, so I took his word for it. He explained that, while many employees would be great and should be treated accordingly, there would always be people who would test the limits of my patience and kindness. 

“Some people are going to see how far they can go before getting in trouble,” he explained. “They are like a child reaching out to touch a hot stove. At first, you say in a stern, but kind way, ‘Please don’t touch the stove. It’s hot. It will burn you.’ But they keep reaching for the stove. So now your tone changes, becoming harsher, ‘I said don’t touch the stove. It’s hot. It will burn you.’ But their hand gets closer still. Now, you are getting frustrated because your attempts to be kind are being ignored. ‘Hey!’ you exclaim, ‘I told you not to touch the stove! You’re going to get burned!’ In spite of this, they just keep reaching for it. Finally, you realize that you are wasting your breath. You have done and said everything you can to help them, but they simply will not be helped. Discouraged and annoyed, you say, ‘Fine. Touch the stove. See what happens, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.'” 

Not only was he right that some employees are just this stubborn and defiant, but he was also right that parenting is also like this from time to time. Some people simply need to learn the hard way. They need to get burned before they will believe the stove is hot. For whatever reason, they are unwilling or unable to learn from the mistakes of others. They have to touch the stove themselves. 

Unfortunately, all too often, I’m “some people.” In an attempt to guide me in the right direction and to save me from unnecessary suffering, God gives me all sorts of warning signs. Like a loving father raising a stubborn child, he tries to teach me how to live a good life, but I resist, insisting that I can do things my way. He tells me that my ways are flawed, to trust him, and that he will not lead me astray, but my pride and selfishness frequently stop me from hearing him. 

I keep pushing until he finally says, “Fine. Touch the stove. See what happens, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Inevitably, I get burned and then turn to him for help. And like a loving father, he is always there to comfort and teach me when I am willing to listen, even if sometimes he lets me feel the pain I caused myself a little longer than I would like. 

God does not save us from the consequences of our actions. We have to live with them. That is our cross to bear. He does love us enough, however, to try to warn us before we choose poorly, but we don’t always listen. So often, we exercise our free will by pushing the boundaries of his grace and breaking his heart. And yet, if we repent, if we turn back to God, we will be forgiven and welcomed home like a runaway child because he wants nothing more than for us to choose him like he has chosen us. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Committing to go deeper

A young monk walked into the abbot’s room where he found the abbot sleeping. 

“Father, wake up,” said the monk. 

“What is it?” the abbot asked. 

“I’m leaving the monastery,” replied the monk. 

“Today?” asked the abbot. 

“No,” said the monk, “Not today.” 

“Okay,” the abbot replied, “Be a good monk today and leave tomorrow.” 

Nearly thirty years of todays have passed for that monk and the tomorrow of leaving has never come.  

This story, a version of which I recently heard told by Father Augustine Wetta on The Chris Stefanick Show, reminded me of something a jiu-jitsu instructor friend of mine says to students who want to quit jiu-jitsu. He tells them, “You aren’t allowed to quit on a bad day. Keep training until you have a great day and then decide whether or not you want to quit. If, even at its best, you still decide jiu-jitsu isn’t for you, we can talk.” 

All too often these days, we commit to things in a lukewarm fashion. We dabble and dip our toes in, and then quit as soon as it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable, or unpleasant. But this prevents us from ever getting to the good stuff. When we quit something too soon, when we have only just scratched the surface of its depth, we never really get to learn the lessons it is meant to teach us, lessons that can only be learned through commitment.

As I have often said about marriage, “In our wedding vows, we don’t say, ‘For better or worse,’ for the better parts. Neither do we say, ‘In sickness and in health,’ for the healthy parts. Better and healthy don’t require vows of commitment. They are easy. We say our vows for when things get worse and our spouses get sick. We vow to be committed through the inevitable pain, frustration, and disillusionment that comes with every relationship.”  

When we commit in this way, we begin to realize that our day-to-day feelings don’t matter as much as we once thought they did. They get some say, but feelings are unreliable and fleeting. What really matters is that we continue, that we practice, that we go deeper, that we go beyond the superficial layers of whatever activity or relationship we are involved in and get to the essence of what that activity or relationship is trying to teach us, and then we keep going. 

It’s easy to commit to something when it’s new, enjoyable, and exciting, but this isn’t really commitment. Commitment is the decision to keep going after the newness has worn off, when the initial enjoyment has faded, and when we are bored or even unhappy. Commitment is the decision to not quit on a bad day and to not leave until tomorrow. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Leaves floating downstream

When my daughter gets a song stuck in her head, for whatever reason, listening to the song on the radio helps free her mind of the song. So quite often I hear her voice from the backseat of the car saying, “Daddy. [insert song title] is stuck in my head. Can you play it?” She tends to be extremely sincere and generally honest, so I at least believe that the song is stuck in her head, but I’m not entirely sure whether this trick of playing the song to get it out of her head actually works or not, or if she just uses this as an excuse to ask me to play the song for her.

Either way, I typically humor her. I don’t mind playing music she likes while I’m driving. It helps me understand her a little better and it’s an opportunity for us to bond. There are times, however, when I simply want to listen to my music, either because I’m simply not in the mood for hers or because I want to expose her to something new. She tends to be fairly understanding, at least as understanding as a child can be, and it gives us a good reason to talk about music, which is something I have always enjoyed. 

Tonight, maybe I simply wasn’t in the mood to listen to the song she said was stuck in her head or maybe I was just being stubborn, but when she asked me to play a song to relieve her of the torture of it running through her mind, I said no. But I wasn’t being cruel. I turned it into a conversation about intrusive, obsessive thoughts, something I have struggled with for as long as I can remember, and a healthy way I have learned to manage, or even transcend them. 

When she told me that the song was stuck in her head and she couldn’t make it go away, I explained that I have the same problem sometimes. In fact, we all have minds that often seem like they are entirely out of our control. Even when we want them to be quiet, they simply won’t and we live with the constant chatter of hope, worry, anger, fear, frustration, excitement, anticipation, shame, regret, etc. running through our minds. Sometimes it is so loud and chaotic that it almost seems quiet, but it is anything but. 

We think about the past, the future, and all the things that have happened, could have happened, may happen, or may never happen, and we are rarely, if ever, simply at peace in the present moment. This, I explained to her, is one of the reasons I meditate every day. “Really?” she asked. “Yes, dear,” I replied. “When I don’t meditate, my mind races, obsesses, and does all sorts of crazy stuff to drive me crazy. Meditation helps to quiet my mind down a bit, or at least makes me less susceptible to getting carried away with the thoughts that bombard me from every direction.” 

I then explained that, in the style of meditation that I practice, known as centering prayer, I pick a simple word that I can repeat whenever my thoughts become intrusive or my mind wanders. I sit quietly and, when thoughts arise, I simply say the word in my mind as a way to let the thoughts go. I don’t try to fight the thoughts or deny them. Rather, I acknowledge them with my word, and let them gently go on their way. “It doesn’t matter how many thoughts arise or how often, I explained, only that I return to the practice of repeating my word every time I need to return to center.” 

Intrigued, she started throwing out some words she might be able to use to release the song in her head. At first, she chose “Stop,” as her word, but then I explained that it’s preferable to use a word that is softer and less of a command. “Remember,” I said, “The goal is not to resist the song, only to free yourself from it.” “Please” was the next word she chose. “That’s closer, dear, but it’s still engaging your thoughts. What we want is a word to remind us to let the thoughts go, not to directly engage our thoughts.” 

“Here’s a visualization I once heard,” I said, “That has helped me better understand the practice. Imagine your mind is a stream. It’s cool and calm, with the water quietly flowing by. On top of the water are fallen leaves. These leaves are your thoughts. As they float down the stream, you will be tempted to hold onto them or to follow them, but the goal is to let them be, to simply acknowledge them and let them continue to float downstream. Your word is there to remind you to let the leaves go and to keep your mind on the stream itself.” 

As I explained this all to her, it occurred to me that it may be a bit much for her to comprehend. After all, it’s a bit much for me to comprehend and I’m the one practicing it. But then I realized that, even if she doesn’t understand or utilize this practice now, it’s something she can recall when she is ready. I merely planted a seed, a seed I wish was planted for me earlier in my life, but which I am grateful to have received when I did. 

We pulled up to our home and unloaded the car. I went upstairs to take a shower after jiu-jitsu class while my daughter sat down to eat. After my shower, I came down to eat and my daughter, now done with her dinner, went upstairs to get ready for bed. After she showered, brushed her teeth, and read for a while, my wife tucked her in and turned out the lights. As she lay in bed, from downstairs I could hear her every few minutes saying a single word. “Leaf,” she said and then some time would pass. “Leaf,” and some more time would pass. “Leaf,” she said again, until eventually she fell asleep. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

The vessel matters

One of my wife and my favorite things to eat on a cold, winter day is a Korean stew called gamja-tang. Gamja-tang is a spicy potato and pork neck-bone stew cooked and served in a hot stone bowl. The pork neck-meat is tender and succulent, the potato is soft and creamy, and the broth is spicy, rich, and full of umami.

Ever since we first got married, one of our weekend rituals, especially during the colder months, has been to go to the Korean market for groceries, and to get gamja-tang and sushi for lunch. Over the years, the markets we go to have changed, and, as our life together has gotten more full, the frequency we go on these dates has become more sparse, but even after fifteen years, groceries and gamja-tang remains one of our favorite ways to get away and spend time together.

Most often, we prefer to sit down and eat together in the little food court of the grocery store. However, there have been occasions when, for one reason or another, we took our food to go. But whenever we have gotten takeout, the soup never tastes the same and we cannot figure out why.

The gamja-tang we take home looks exactly the same as the gamja-tang we eat in the restaurant. It has the same ingredients and the quantities are the same. The taste, however, is different. It’s less rich, less flavorsome, and lacks that unami deliciousness it has when we eat it on-site. The best we can figure, the bowl the stew is served in is what makes the difference between the eat-in and the takeout versions.

When gamja-tang is cooked, it’s cooked directly over the fire in a stone bowl. This bowl is then placed on a small, stone platter and served to customers in the same vessel it was cooked in. When gamja-tang is ordered to-go, however, the stew is transferred out of the bowl it was cooked in and into a plastic takeout container. Since the only real difference between eating gamja-tang in the food court and eating it at home is the container it is served in, we have to assume that this is the cause for the noticeable difference in flavor.

In my many years spent as a coffee drinker, barista, and espresso machine repair technician, I have observed this same phenomenon with coffee. When coffee is served in a ceramic cup, it tastes different than when it is served in a glass, paper, or plastic cup. I don’t know why, but it just does. Apparently, the vessel matters.

The same principle seems to apply to us. As much as we don’t want it to be the case, and as unfair as it may seem, how we present ourselves, how we dress, groom, and carry ourselves, plays a large role in how we are perceived and received by the world. This is especially true when we are trying to carry a message to others.

We all want to be loved and accepted as we are and for who we are, but there is only one who has ever truly loved us unconditionally in this way. That one is God, the God who knew us before he formed us in the womb (Jeremiah 1:5), the God to whom nothing is hidden (Hebrews 4:13), and the God to whom we will return to answer for our lives in death (Romans 14:10-12). This same God who knows us better than we know ourselves (Psalm 139:1-4) also loves us beyond our comprehension or deserving (Romans 5:6-8).

God loves us for who we are, but everyone else has conditions and expectations. For this reason, how we present ourselves matters. The container matters. Our outward appearance doesn’t define us or make us any more or less loved by God, for God’s love is perfect, but whether we like it or not, it does affect how we are perceived and received by the world. Much like Korean stew or espresso, changing the container changes perception. So if we want to be taken seriously, if we want our message to be heard, we have to look like we are serious and deserve to be listened to.

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Praying for courage

I’ve been a public speaker on and off in various venues for the past twenty seven or so years. Most of my talks have revolved around recovery from drug and alcohol addiction, and the relationship with God that made my recovery possible. It’s a subject with which I have intimate knowledge and about which I am extremely passionate. And yet, I still get nervous before I speak.

I have spoken at countless venues in front of a variety of audiences, and it has always worked out. With the exception of one or two talks many years ago when my anxiety got the best of me, things have always gone well. Even in those rare one or two rare cases, I was able to pivot and pull it off.

Time and time again, my experience has proven that I have nothing to fear, I’m not an imposter, and things are going to be fine. Most importantly, however, my experience has proven that God will not abandon me, that he loves me, provides for me, and protects me. He has never let me down. And yet, I still get nervous before I speak.

I often wonder what it would be like to have perfect faith. That is, what would it be like to trust God implicitly, always, to fear nothing, and to never worry? While I do believe that this state of perfect faith is possible, if only because I believe that, for God all things are possible, I have a long way to go before I achieve it.

I have had brief moments of perfect faith. But like most people, I’m flawed and broken, impatient and untrusting, and I try to control things that are either out of my control or that would be better left to God. Precisely because of this brokenness, when I get nervous before I speak, and even when I don’t, I find a quiet space to pray. My fear is my own, but my courage comes from God.

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

In stillness

“I invite you to sit still, sit straight, fold your hands and bow. Repeat after me:
Be still, and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10 NIV).
Be still, and know that I am.
Be still, and know.
Be still.
Be.” 

Followed by several minutes of silence, this simple, but beautifully powerful prayer is how Dr. James Finley closes out each podcast episode of Turning to the Mystics. In addition to leading theTurning to the Mystics podcast with co-host Kristen Oats, Dr. Finley is an author, clinical psychologist, retreat leader, public speaker, and former student of the late, modern mystic Thomas Merton. In each episode, drawing from his vast knowledge of and experience with the material, Dr. Finley gives listeners modern, practical perspective on the writings and teachings of various figureheads in the Christian mystical tradition. 

A now devout listener of the Turning to the Mystics podcast, which came into my life at exactly the right time (funny how God seems to always work that way), this prayer was on my mind this morning as I did my morning meditation. Being still has always been difficult for me, especially in the sense that God means it in this particular Psalm. I’m a worrier, a planner, and a doer. Sitting in silence for an extended period of time, being still and allowing God to be God, goes against every instinct I have. 

This resistance to stillness has come at a cost. Several years ago, I essentially worried, planned, and worked my way into a series of anxiety attacks. I had reached my limit, the jumping off place, where my best best ideas and my best thinking were no longer working. I was working two jobs, one of which was my own business, training jiu-jitsu as much as I could, and trying to navigate family life to the best of my ability, all while neglecting my physical, mental, and spiritual health. 

As covid swept through the world and things began to shut down, I crashed. Life came to a grinding halt and I, who had been running full speed for longer than I can remember, broke down. At the time, I had no idea what was happening, but it felt like my life, and my sanity, was ending. I couldn’t sit still, let alone be still, and I had no where to go. Forced to be with myself, undistracted by the hectic pace I to which I had grown accustomed, I crumbled under the weight of my own unresolved issues. 

Like so many times before, in this moment of desperation, I said a prayer. At the time, I didn’t know it was a prayer. I prayed on my knees every day upon awakening and before going to sleep, but this was not like that. This was my soul crying out for help. From the deepest part of my being, I admitted that what I was doing wasn’t working, that who I had become was not who I was intended to be, and that I couldn’t go on anymore like this. 

I’d like to say that I changed immediately and all was well from that moment on, but the truth is that it has been a long, difficult road from there to here. Along the way, I began working with a therapist, I left my job of twelve years and my career of almost twenty, I refocused my attention on my family and my health, and, most importantly, I was led back to my spiritual path in a deeper, more meaningful way than I previously thought possible. God is now at the center at my life where he belongs and it is easy for me to see where and how things went so wrong when, in spite of my stated beliefs and habitual prayers, my life did not reflect this simple truth. 

That brings us back to stillness. As I sat this morning to read, pray, and meditate, it occurred to me that what was once the most difficult thing in the world for me to do is now the thing that feels the most natural, the most necessary, and the most fulfilling. That, in spite of my resistance, obstinance, and even defiance, I can, and do, sit down every morning to simply be with God is nothing less than a miracle. 

In stillness, I find the peace, rest, and connection that no amount of running, chasing, or hustling was ever going to bring me. In stillness, I learn that life goes on around and without me, and that I do not have to involve myself with or react to every little thing that crosses my mind or my path. In stillness, there is freedom from boredom, worry, and desire. In stillness, I surrender to the love that sustains me. In stillness, I am allowed, or rather commanded, to merely be, to trust and know that God is God.

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Grappling with a ghost

In December of 2020, Jerry Seinfeld did an interview on the Tim Ferriss Show where, among other things, he talked about helping his daughter develop a writing habit. One recommendation he made to her was to set a time limit on her writing. “Just do an hour,” he told her, “Nobody writes all day. Shakespeare can’t write all day. It’s torture… You have to have an end-time to your writing session. If you’re going to sit down at a desk with a problem and do nothing else, you’ve got to get a reward for that. And the reward is, the alarm goes off, and you’re done. You get up and walk away and go have some cookies and milk. You’re done.”

As someone who is often plagued with all-or-nothing thinking, this really hit home for me. It’s important, when building a habit, to start small. Ask yourself what amount of time and effort each day is both sustainable and productive. It has to be both if you are going to stick with your practice, and that is really what building a habit is. It’s a practice. Your practice has to be sustainable because otherwise you will quit when it gets too difficult or inconvenient, but it also has to be productive because, if you don’t see noticeable results, or at least progress, you are also likely to quit. 

But the thing that really struck me about what Mr. Seinfeld said was that the reward for writing is to be finished with it. That, for him, the reward is not in the writing process itself. Rather, the reward is that it’s over, that he gets to stop, to get up, and to move on to something else. I can see the truth of this in my own writing practice. Like many writers have said before me, “I don’t like to write. I like having written.”

Writing, especially when it’s personal, is difficult. The best way for me to describe it is that it feels like I am grappling with some hidden, mysterious force inside me. I am simultaneously attempting to submit it while also submitting to it. Much like my jiu-jitsu practice, writing is not something I dreamt of doing or even necessarily desired to do before I started. It’s something I felt and feel compelled to do. It’s like chasing a ghost that is also chasing me. 

Also, like my jiu-jitsu practice, writing is often painful. It’s a struggle. It’s a fickle mistress. Some days, it leaves me feeling accomplished, inspired, and fulfilled, but other days, it leaves me feeling hurt, frustrated, and disappointed. In the long run, however, I am always glad to have done it. I’m glad to have shown up to practice, to have put in the effort, and to have faced myself in the process. And so, for better or worse, day in and day out, I will continue to grapple. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Invest in spiritual tools

When I was a teenager, my father told me something like, “Invest in quality tools. If you buy cheap tools, they will break. Then, you’ll be buying them twice, the first time when you buy the cheap tools and the second time when you buy the expensive tools to replace the broken cheap tools.” Needless to say, I didn’t listen. For as long as I can remember, defiance against authority has plagued my decision making, even when it means self-sabotage. 

Many years later, I was in the middle of a project for work in the city and I realized that I didn’t have a flat-head screwdriver. So I made a quick run to the store. But there are not many hardware or tool stores in the city, so I stopped at the closest place I could find, which happened to be some sort of dollar store. 

Hesitant but in a hurry, I grabbed a screwdriver and checked out with the cashier. All the while, I thought to myself, “This thing is cheap, but it’s a screwdriver. What could go wrong? It’s not the best screwdriver, but it will get the job done. How could they mess up a screwdriver?” I wasn’t convinced, but I was trying to keep my spirits up. 

I made my way back to the job-site and put the screwdriver in the screw-head. As I attempted to turn the screw, the entire tip of the screwdriver broke off in the slot. I immediately thought back to my father’s warning about buying cheap tools and my head fell in shame and frustration. 

As much as I wanted to be angry at the manufacturer, the store I bought it from, or even the screwdriver itself, I knew that this was my fault and I couldn’t blame anyone else. After all, the signs were there – my father had warned me, I knew it was a dollar store, and my spidey-sense was tingling, even if I tried to shut it up – I just chose to ignore them.

More important than the dollar and some change that I spent on a screwdriver that couldn’t drive screws, I had just wasted an hour of my life and the job still wasn’t done. So I found a hardware store, bought a decent screwdriver, and went back to the job-site to finish what I’d started. It’s been several years since this happened, but both the lesson and the image of that broken screwdriver are burned into my memory.

I recently recounted this story to a friend when we were talking about how fortunate we are to have a set of spiritual tools with which to navigate our lives and through which to solve the problems we face. This wasn’t always the case and I’m beyond grateful that, through God’s grace, I have been given a new lease on life. I spent many years trying to manage with a set of cheap, broken, or non-existent tools. 

It wasn’t until I hit a spiritual, emotional, and psychological bottom that I was able to admit that what I was doing wasn’t working – that I was using a broken screwdriver – and I had no idea where to go or who to ask for help. But “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18 NIV)” and, through the kindness of people in my life who loved me, as well as the help countless generous strangers, God heard my cries and delivered me out of my suffering. 

It’s been many years since I made the decision to turn my will and life over to the care of God and more recently Jesus Christ, but I now have an entirely different outlook on life and an entirely new set of tools with which to work. Of course, I still make poor decisions rather frequently, whether out of obstinance, impatience, or ignorance, but I now know that in God’s word and in his grace, there is an infinite store of wisdom, love, and peace at my disposal if only I am willing to trust him and not settle for cheap tools that don’t work anyway. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox.