sacrifice

I almost gave up rolling in jiu-jitsu for Lent

I’ve been struggling with a shoulder injury, which I sustained in jiu-jitsu, for quite some time. Last month, however, it took a significant turn for the worse. Normally, I simply train around my injuries, which, considering I’m almost forty-seven, may be why my shoulder has never really healed. The nagging and progressive nature of this injury has had me worried, though. 

As we entered the season of Lent, it occurred to me that it may be a good idea to give up rolling (sparring in jiu-jitsu) for Lent. Considering the fact that rolling is my favorite part of jiu-jitsu, I knew that this was going to be a big sacrifice for me. In fact, aside from when I was in a car accident nine years ago and when we were in the lockdown phase of covid, this would be the longest I have ever not rolled since I started jiu-jitsu in 2012. 

In the beginning, it was relatively easy because my shoulder and neck were in so much pain that the idea of rolling was actually frightening. As I started to get better, however, as a result of rest, foam-rolling, stretching, massage, and multiple visits to a chiropractor, I began testing the waters a little bit on the mats. 

At first, I tried only flow-rolling and only with purple belts or higher. After a few classes of that, I tried only playing guard and asking my partners to reset back to neutral if and when they passed my guard. Then, I started rolling with people but not submitting them, telling myself that it’s not rolling if I’m not using submissions. 

A dozen loopholes and self-justifications later, I realized that I had broken my Lenten vow. Then came the excuses. “I’m not actually Catholic,” I told myself, “My church doesn’t preach or practice Lent.” 

“Does God really care whether or not I roll?” I asked. 

“It’s just jiu-jitsu,” I said, “What’s the big deal?” 

But I could feel that something was off. My spiritual condition began to suffer and I just didn’t feel right. At first, I thought it was simply the fact that I’m in pain almost all of the time from my shoulder, but I knew there was more going on than that. 

Then I recalled the story from Matthew 26:36-46 when Jesus took his disciples to Gethsemane to pray. He tells them that “[his] soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death (38)” and asks them to keep watch with him. He goes off to pray three times and, all three times, he comes back to find them sleeping. Jesus is about to be crucified for the sins of the world and his disciples couldn’t even stay awake to keep watch with him for an hour. 

As I recalled this story, my heart sunk. I couldn’t even give up rolling for a month. That’s how weak I am. That’s how easily I give into temptation and how quickly I “fell asleep” while my Lord and Savior prepares to be crucified so that I may be saved. Jesus gave his life for me and I couldn’t even give him a month of my time and faithfulness. Thank the good Lord for his forgiveness and mercy. Heaven knows I do not deserve it. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations on God and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Floating, falling, or being carried

My spiritual journey, that is to say my life’s journey, has been anything but smooth sailing in a straight line. From what I’ve gathered from the other people I’ve known, spoken with, and traveled with along the way, I am not alone in this. In fact, one of the main themes in the Bible is that the spiritual life is not an easy life. The alternative, however, is much more difficult. 

From Adam and Eve to Abraham, from Moses to David, and even Jesus himself, with all of God’s people and prophets in between, no one had a life without challenges. It could even be said that to be a follower of God is to live a life of sacrifice and suffering. This is also true for those who do not follow God, but the things sacrificed and the reason for suffering are different. This difference, it seems, is really the point. 

God does not ask those who follow him to sacrifice meaninglessly. Nor does he make his people suffer without purpose. He promises us that, as long as we act faithfully, our pain, grief, and confusion will all have been for something. It will all for us, not against us. 

It’s not always easy to see this when we are in the middle of it. No one enjoys suffering, not even Jesus. But with him as our example, as our king, our friend, and our savior, we are given hope. We are told not to worry, not to fear, and to trust that God loves us. In fact, we are told that God is love and that we, like Jesus, are his beloved children. 

Sometimes the spiritual journey feels like floating. Other times, it feels like falling. When we look back, I suspect, it will feel more like we were being carried, and being carried might explain the feelings of floating and falling we experience along the way. 

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. 

I’m afraid of losing her

Ever since my daughter was born, I would check on her multiple times each night to make sure she was still breathing. Nearly ten years later and I still do this. If she goes to sleep before me, when I go upstairs, I check on her before I go to bed. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I go in her room to check on her before going back to sleep. If I wake up before her in the morning, I check on her before I go downstairs. 

I’ve often thought about why this I do this. I’m sure it’s partly out of habit. I’ve been doing it for so long that it’s just something I do. But there’s more to it than that. 

Of course, I check on her because I love her. She’s my only child and we are extremely close. She means the world to me and I adore her. But if I’m being honest with myself, that’s only part of why I check on her so often. 

Having reflected on this behavior quite a bit over the years, the thing I keep coming back to is fear. I’m afraid of losing her, of something happening to her in her sleep, and of her dying suddenly with no warning or explanation. I’m afraid of this because, deep down, I still feel like I don’t deserve her. 

My daughter is such an amazing soul. She is thoughtful, compassionate, kind, creative, hardworking, and extremely smart. I’m in awe of her and I have more love for her than I ever thought I was capable of having for another human being. The thought of losing her terrifies me. 

I have done a lot wrong in my life. At times, I have been selfish, careless, and unkind. Especially in my youth, I have done many things that I regret. And while I know that my shortcomings and mistakes do not define who I am, I also know that I have a life better than I deserve, especially when it comes to her. In the back of my mind, and sometimes in the forefront, I am haunted by the thought of losing her as some kind of divine punishment for my pride, anger, and other wrongdoings. 

Sometimes, this fear drives me to be a better father. It motivates me to spend as much time with her as possible, to be as present for her as I am capable of being, to guide her as best I can, and to let her know that I love her often. Other times, it’s just fear. It results in worry, anxiety, and restless nights. 

The thing is that I know that God loves me and forgives me for my past mistakes. I have confessed them to him and another person, and I have tried to right my wrongs to the best of my ability. I also know, however, that what’s done is done and I cannot change the past. I have to live with my mistakes. 

I’m not sure why I’m writing all of this other than that I needed to get it out. I needed to acknowledge it and put it “on paper” so to speak. Perhaps I wonder if other fathers have the same feelings toward their children, a feeling of absolute unworthiness for the unfathomable miracle that they are. Maybe this is my way of reaching out for connection with those who feel the same way that I do, or maybe someone else needs to know that they are not alone. 

What I am sure of, however, is that God is loving and merciful, so loving in fact that he sacrificed his own son to pay for my sins. For me to continue to wallow in grief and remorse is almost ungrateful, almost a denial of that gift, and it certainly does not make me more useful to God or the people around me. My fear is a subtle way of rejecting God’s grace. 

Perhaps that’s what this is all about. Maybe, through the deep and unexplainable feelings I have for my daughter, God is showing me how much he loves me. I might be making too much out of nothing, but it doesn’t feel like nothing to me. It feels like everything and, as I check on her this evening and kiss her goodnight, I will do so as a form of prayer. 

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.