CLOCK: What You Do With the Time You Didn't Choose | 083026

Every gym I've ever trained in has had a clock somewhere.

I've spent a ridiculous amount of my life looking at one.

Waiting for the next set.

Watching a rest period.

Counting down an interval.

Trying to beat yesterday's time.

Sometimes wanting the seconds to move faster.

Sometimes wishing they'd slow down.

But there's something about that clock I didn't understand when I was younger.

It isn't only measuring the work.

It's measuring the recovery too.

My youngest son reminded me of that last week.

A Season Interrupted

Bam is a junior at Lourdes. He plays cornerback and backs up at quarterback.

A few days ago, he broke his thumb at football practice.

Bad break.

Bad enough to require surgery and a pin.

Now we're looking at him potentially missing half of his junior season. Maybe he'll make it back for the playoffs. Maybe earlier. Maybe later.

There are too many unknowns right now.

We have to let the recovery tell us.

And as much as Bam loves football, I don't think missing games is the part that hurts him most.

A lot of his closest friends are seniors.

This is their last season at Lourdes.

This was supposed to be their final season playing together.

Next year, Bam may be back on that field.

A lot of those guys won't be.

You don't get that time back.

There's no motivational quote that makes that part disappear.

It hurts.

As his father, I hate it for him.

But almost immediately after the injury, Bam started talking about what he could do.

He'll still go to practice.

He'll still go to games.

He'll help the coaches.

He'll motivate his teammates.

He'll continue being a leader.

And within whatever limits his doctors establish, he wants to use this time to focus on his strength and conditioning.

His goal is already clear:

Come back stronger.

Come back faster.

Come back better.

No woe is me.

No this isn't fair.

Just:

Okay. This is where I am. What can I do from here?

I'm proud of that kid.

The Waiting Room

The morning of his surgery, I was pretty calm.

That's generally how I handle situations like this. I don't let myself run through every hypothetical thing that could go wrong.

Bam was with his doctors.

He was where he needed to be.

We'd get through surgery and deal with recovery one step at a time.

My wife, Mari, was sitting beside me praying the rosary.

At one point I looked over and saw a tear roll down her cheek.

I know how much she worries about our kids.

And for just a moment, seeing that tear changed my thoughts.

What if he's not okay?

What if something goes wrong?

What if the recovery doesn't go the way we expect?

Fear is pretty good at writing stories that haven't happened yet.

But then I thought:

I've been here before.

His Brother Went First

When our oldest son, Damian, was in eighth grade, he suffered a terrible injury near the beginning of football season.

He broke both bones in his lower leg.

I can still picture him lying on the field.

His foot had spun around backward.

His season was over.

Then came the cast.

The couch.

Rehab.

PT.

And when lacrosse season arrived, Damian made a decision.

Rather than rushing back into another sport, he spent that season rebuilding himself.

PT.

Training.

The gym.

Work.

And when he stepped onto the field for JV football his freshman year at Lourdes, he wasn't simply back.

He was stronger and faster than he'd been before the injury.

Sitting in that waiting room while Bam was in surgery, I remembered something I couldn't have known when Damian first got hurt:

I couldn't see the end of Damian's recovery from the beginning either.

But I can see it now.

Different son.

Different injury.

Different road.

But I'd already witnessed what can happen when someone refuses to waste the time between hurt and healed.

So I took a breath.

And I prayed.

Psalm 56:3 says:

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

I love that Scripture because it doesn't say we never become afraid.

Faith doesn't require pretending fear never enters our minds.

For me, it means fear doesn't get to determine what happens next.

I couldn't control what was happening in the operating room.

I couldn't control how quickly Bam would heal.

I couldn't control whether he'd return halfway through the season, for the playoffs, or later.

So I trusted that God was in that operating room with my son.

And I let go of what I couldn't control.

“When Can I Eat?”

Eventually, they called us back.

Surgery was finished.

Bam was good.

And when we got there, he was already charming the nurses and joking around.

He couldn't remember anything after the needle went into his arm.

After the injury, the surgery, anesthesia and getting a pin placed in his thumb, Bam had one pressing question:

“When can I eat?”

That's Bam.

Mari and I had spent the previous hours thinking about surgery, recovery, football and everything that could come next.

The kid woke up hungry.

Maybe he understands the clock better than I do.

Recovery Is Part of the Training

When you're resting between sets in the gym, the clock doesn't stop.

Your heart rate comes down.

Your breathing recovers.

Your body prepares for the next effort.

Things are happening even when, from the outside, it looks like you're doing nothing.

Recovery isn't what happens between the training.

Recovery is part of the training.

Maybe life works that way too.

Bam can't play football right now.

His role has changed.

That doesn't mean his season has stopped.

For a while, leadership may happen from the sideline.

Progress may happen somewhere other than the football field.

A win might be a good report from his doctor.

Another step in rehab.

A training session consisting only of what he's been medically cleared to do.

Or a practice where he helps one of his teammates improve even though he can't take the rep himself.

The clock is still running.

Bam, This Part Is for You

Son, I know you'll read this.

You've told me you want to use this time to get stronger and faster.

I believe you.

And you've got a pretty good example living under the same roof.

Learn from your brother.

Follow his example.

But:

Don't follow his timetable.

Your injury isn't Damian's injury.

Your recovery isn't Damian's recovery.

Maybe you'll be back halfway through the season.

Maybe it'll be the playoffs.

Maybe it'll be later.

We don't know.

Don't make the calendar your opponent.

Eventually, your hand is going to start feeling better.

You're going to be standing on that sideline watching your boys play.

You're going to know you can help them.

And you're going to want back in.

Listen to your doctors.

Do the rehab.

Train what you're cleared to train.

Give your body the time it needs.

Because I've learned this lesson the hard way:

Coming back early isn't the same thing as coming back strong.

There is discipline in pushing when it's time to push.

There's also discipline in waiting when it's time to wait.

Ecclesiastes tells us there is an appointed time for everything.

A time to compete.

A time to recover.

A time to lead from the field.

And apparently, sometimes there's a time to learn how to lead from the sideline.

And remember:

Being unable to stand on the field beside your brothers doesn't mean you stop standing with them.

Don't let an injury decide what kind of teammate you are.

What Can I Build While I'm Here?

This isn't really an article about a broken thumb.

Eventually, all of us find ourselves in an interval we didn't choose.

An injury.

A diagnosis.

A job that disappears.

A relationship going through a difficult season.

A plan that doesn't work.

A door that won't open.

And we stare at the clock.

When will this be over?

When can I get back?

When does my real life start again?

Maybe there's another question worth asking:

What can I build while I'm here?

Some seasons aren't asking us to wait until they're over.

They're asking us to become something while they're happening.

Faith isn't knowing exactly how the interval ends.

It's trusting God and doing what we're called to do while the clock is still running.

We don't always control when the interval ends.

But we have a whole lot to say about who we are when it does.

That's what I'm watching my son do.

An injury gave Bam a sideline.

He decided it wasn't going to give him a seat.

He'll show up.

He'll lead.

He'll train.

He'll recover.

He'll support his brothers.

And eventually, God willing, he'll walk back onto that football field.

I don't know when.

That's okay.

He doesn't need to wait until then to start becoming the athlete, teammate, leader and man who eventually walks back onto it.

That work has already started.

Bam—

I'm proud of you.

Not because I expect you to beat a recovery timeline.

Not because I expect some miraculous comeback.

And certainly not because I want you proving how tough you are by returning before you're ready.

I'm proud of you because something you love was taken away from you for a while...

and your first instinct wasn't to feel sorry for yourself.

It was to figure out how you could still serve your team.

That's leadership.

That's character.

No broken thumb can take either of those away from you.

Heal.

Train what you can.

Help your coaches.

Lead your teammates.

Learn.

Pray.

And don't waste the interval staring at the clock wishing it would move faster.

Use the time.

I love you, son.

I can't wait to see what you build with it.

Today's lesson came from the clock.

Next week, we'll see what else the gym has to teach us.