In 1975, I was 16 years old and a junior in high school in West Chester, Pennsylvania. I was an average student and a multi-sport high school athlete—quarterback on the football team and sprinter/hurdler on the track team—and had many other interests, including music (drums and guitar), motorcycles, cars and other sports. I was raised and baptized in a family of what I’ll call “Sunday Christians” in the Presbyterian Church. My dad was the ring leader for “dragging us off to church” most Sundays; mom was simply along for the ride with my two brothers and me and she often found excuses not to go. Sunday school gave me some foundation along the way…Bible familiarity, the classic Bible stories, some sense of the Trinity, confirmation, church camp experiences, youth choir, and many hours of arts and crafts. As I started periodically attending ‘real church’, it was all about dress clothes, shoes that hurt, neck ties, feet flat on the floor, no gum, silence, and no making paper airplanes out of the bulletins, i.e. rules and pain. As we got a bit older—if I was paying attention in church—some things in the sermons and messages “stuck” as isolated points well taken—like the Bible stories from Sunday school—but the whole, comprehensive, picture never became clear. It was like being able to identify pieces of a jigsaw puzzle but never having an opportunity to see the big picture on the lid of the puzzle box. I was also exposed to some hypocrisy on the part of “good Christians” which, at that point in my faith journey, really turned me off; suddenly the whole church experience seemed like all show and no substance. I stopped attending regularly in high school…dad gave up ‘forcing’ us to go.
Dad and mom never made their faith evident outside of that one hour on Sunday mornings. We said grace before Christmas and Easter dinners, but rarely at any other time. I don’t ever remember either of them reading a Bible or discussing faith topics with each other or with my brothers and me. In high school I joined Young Life for a short period, mostly for an excuse to get out of the house on Wednesday nights. But, some Young Life discussions “stuck” and I started—for the first time—to think about actually applying my faith to my life. Before that time, they were two separate compartments…church and life.
So that’s just context for my story. At 16, my focus was on playing high school football and then moving on to major college football. Many people around me were encouraging me on that path and shaping my focus. I was also convinced that professional football was a very real possibility for me, and that goal permeated my life. Everything about my life was focused on football and a long, successful, lucrative, future playing the game. Meanwhile, no one around me was aggressively shaping my faith focus, and my faith certainly didn’t permeate my life and goals. Oh, I prayed before every game, but once the game started I was more concerned with college scouts than Jesus. I certainly made time for weightlifting and running, but did not do the same for Bible study and prayer. I was “on my way” and “my plan” was working great.
Then, in an early season game while playing quarterback, a defensive lineman from the opposing team shot through a gap in our offensive line and planted his shoulder pad squarely on the outside of my right knee while I had my right foot planted to pitch the ball to our tailback. I felt something pop, but the pain wasn’t too bad so I ran another play…but something felt very wrong. Long story short, it was a complete ACL tear, MCL tear, and torn medial meniscus. Instead of preparing for our next opponent, I was off to the operating room. Realize that in 1975, torn ACLs were largely career-ending injuries…but of course I was sure I could prove the doubters wrong. I had lots of people on my side…or so I thought.
Then strange things started to happen. All those people who were encouraging me while I was healthy seemed to evaporate. The football team that I helped lead looked at me as just another injured player on crutches down at the end of the sidelines. I was replaced by another QB and largely forgotten by anyone who had anything to do with football…including scouts…left to my own recovery and an uncertain future.
Then I got angry. I got angry at God for letting that happen to me…for smashing my hopes and dreams. Watching everyone else play football, celebrate on the field, and enjoy success made me even angrier. Why me God…what did I do to deserve this punishment? Any shred of faith I had took a nose dive. My grades plummeted, my behavior eroded, relationships suffered and I was adrift. My plan…my only plan…evaporated.
I focused on physical recovery but my anger, negativity and frustration made it suboptimal. My heart and head weren’t in it. In my mind at the time, God certainly wasn’t a part of my recovery…why would he be…He was the one who let this happen to me.
During the next 8 months, a handful of people partially refocused me; a Christian girlfriend who I met in Young Life, my track coach who bluntly reminded me of academic eligibility requirements, patient friends and extended family (a Christian cousin specifically). I was still angry, but started to move on. A successful track season in the spring of 1976 helped. My race times weren’t what they had been, but they were competitive and I had some success and was part of a team again. I once again prayed before each race, fully expecting God to support my success…my plan…on the track.
I showed up for summer football camp as a senior in the fall of 1976 with high hopes after almost a year of recovery. But once again, it was all about my plan, my efforts, and my results with no focus on God. The coaches moved me to wide receiver because they already had a quarterback they’d groomed last season after I got hurt and they wanted to keep my knees out of harm’s way. The team welcomed me back with open arms and high fives. I was back in “a good place” again…by my definition. But one day into full speed drills I knew it wasn’t meant to be. The full speed directional changes and quick deceleration required at the wide receiver position were just too much for my knee. In a moment of frustration, I told the head coach I was done…he shook my hand…I cleaned out my locker…and that was that. I was adrift again…and angry all over again. But I knew I was healthy and could focus on a successful track season in the spring, which I did. We had a great track season, my academics improved as I refocused, I graduated and I had an opportunity to run in college if I wanted it.
At some point though, something changed. I had just lived through two years of significant relationship changes and life changes. I watched family members, people around me, and relationships implode for myriad reasons. A couple of my good friends died in accidents. I began to realize that there was more to my life than my self-centered plans. I was part of something bigger than a football team or track team. A psychology course that I took in my senior year left an indelible imprint on me for some unknown reason (at the time). Something tugged at my heart and focused me on other people…on helping people…on helping people NOT be like me…not handle life challenges the way I did. Somewhat ironically, I felt compelled to do whatever I could to help people find constructive ways to move forward in their lives in spite of obstacles. And, oddly, I had credibility because I had done things the wrong way. I decided to go to Penn State, to not run track, to get a degree in Behavioral Science, and to spend much of my life trying to help people not make the same mistakes I did, especially young people. Was I an active Christian at that time? No, but I now know that God was at work. I was beginning to hear the “voice of truth” over the din of everything else that I thought was so important. He took me down (or let me go down) that path for a reason, I just didn’t know it at the time.
In my mind, God finally stepped out of the shadows and really took me by the hand in 1987 after I met my wife, Kim. She and her family were (and are) truly faith-filled Christians. We met on a blind date, she invited me to church, I went (maybe for the wrong reasons initially), and over the next few months and years the muddy water started to become clear. There wasn’t a single “ah ha” moment…there were dozens…hundreds…as each Sunday’s sermon, each dinner table discussion with a Christian wife and each campfire conversation with Christian friends opened my eyes a little further. The foundation I gained as a child (thanks dad!), combined with my life experiences and many new Christian friends around me to help me understand the overarching context made the light bulb grow brighter with each passing day. I was starting to “get it”.
In about 1992, while commuting to work one morning, I saw a bright red and white bumper sticker on a car in front of me that finally cemented my “recovery.” It said…”Men plan, and God laughs.” That day…sitting at that red light after everything I had experienced over about 17 years…I got it.
1975 was a long time ago, and I still admittedly get a little twinge of “what could have been” and “if only” frustration every fall when football starts. Who knows where I’d be if “my plan” had worked, but I know I wouldn’t be in nearly as good a place as where I am because of God’s plan for me. I still make plans, and I still get frustrated when they don’t work out, but only for a minute…because I know God has an even better plan in mind…and who am I to question Him?
Gary Kowatch